


The Sacrifice

by GrimRevolution



Series: Shattered Ice [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1720274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/GrimRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a brave new world full of bullets and shadows, of knives in the dark, and Steve Rogers doesn't know who to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The Price. Yes, you might want to read that one, first because this is what happened after.  
> Please take note that this story takes place before Iron Man 3 and Thor: The Dark World.

“It is not the strongest or the most intelligent who will survive, but those who can best manage change.”

Charles Darwin

* * *

 

The 21st century is a digital book, one full of cameras and cell phones and the internet. Everything can be accessed, everything can be filtered through to form a picture out of tiny, miniscule details.

The details for this story are simple;

Fact: Tony Stark left for Europe in an Iron Man suit to make sure the new equipment he ordered was what he had asked for according to a file in the SHIELD databanks.

Fact: No one had seen what was in the truck except for Tony Stark. The driver was not given a key, and the loaders only knew that the package was in a wooden crate and it was heavy.

Fact: There was no money transaction from any of the twenty Stark bank accounts the billionaire had. It was unknown if he had paid in cash (which seemed highly unlikely anyway).

Fact: A month after the delivery, a Steven G. Rogers went to go get his driver’s license. His social security number had never existed until a day before—even though the hacking was done so well that if one hadn’t been actively scanning for a Steven G. Rogers in New York every week it would have been missed completely.

Fact: Steven G. Rogers arrived with one Pepper Potts and Agent Natasha Romanoff.

Fact: There are no coincidences, not where the Avengers are involved.

Fact: Agent Jasper Sitwell at SHIELD looked over the information at one in the morning and headed straight up to the top of the Triskelion to speak to Alexander Pierce.

The rest, as they say, is history.

* * *

 

Dog hair was stuck to just about everything on the second day that Steve moved in to his new studio apartment. Books took its place on the day after, and Tuesday seemed like it was the shopping bags and boxes turn.

And then Ikea.

Tony laughed at him for getting a purple furniture set from Ikea and, yeah, it didn’t really match the rusty red colour of the brick walls but _sue him_. He could get goddamn purple furniture if he goddamn wanted to. The soldier painted a few pictures for the hell of it, got a few red and purple lamps, and made it so that the room was an awe inspiring master piece of _who gives a fuck_.

Okay, in all seriousness he was an artist and it _did_ have a colour scheme. The smooth violet, rustic red, a bit of cream here and there to lighten the mood.

Black dog fur.

That dog got fur over _everything_ except the couch and the counters. Cause Treasa was a good dog. Or a better dog than Tony at any rate who had lounged about on the newly built sofa as Steve trucked numerous boxes up the spiral, iron staircase (full of books and movies that Tony had bought, by the way) to the loft above where Pepper was organizing the shelves.

By title, author, or goddamn library codes, he didn’t know. She was just there and he was a gentleman and decided to just be grateful for it—if he found a new way to organize them later, fine. Right now, though, the CEO was taking time out of her normally very busy work schedule to help. In the kitchen area, Natasha unpacked his cooking supplies while Bruce helped Clint (who was standing on a very unsteady ladder but seemed to be having no problems) put up the curtains in front of the large windows. The very, very large windows that stretched up higher than even Steve could reach. They didn’t reach up to the loft or the ceiling, which was something, but they weren’t too far beneath them either.

Those windows were the reason he bought the apartment; so he could look over the city skyline and see the towering buildings of Manhattan and Brooklyn crisscross into one being. They also opened up onto an overhang that could either be sat on when he was bored or wanted to draw or paint, or just watch time pass.

“Clothes,” Natasha tossed a large, plastic bag to him and he fumbled for a second before he caught it, grabbing a few more that were just sitting around and bounded up the stairs two at a time. The empty book/movie boxes were all stacked up nice and neat in a corner and he kind of felt bad having to move them to get into the wardrobe (oh well).

The clothes the soldier was wearing were a set that JARVIS had picked out for him (and man did it take him a few days to get used to _that_ modern technology), everything else came from a spur of the moment shopping trip with Natasha and Pepper. The ladies had laid claim to Tony Stark’s credit cards and had dragged Steve to every store imaginable having him try on jeans, shirts, slacks, and even exercise wear. Whoever said shopping wasn’t exhausting had never tried it with a CEO and a spy—both who had separate mindsets on what he looked good in _and_ what he needed.

“Are you even doing anything?” Clint yelled from where he was perched on the swaying ladder (and now it looked even more dangerous, Jesus), Bruce below looking a little green around the gills each time one of the legs left the floor.

“I set up the internet connection, ordered him a computer _and_ a television, and installed the security,” Tony grinned back and cursed at his phone as the bird he was trying to keep flying suddenly plummeted to the ground. “So I did more than you, Merida.”

Steve shook his head and ripped open a package of hangers, putting up the jackets and dress shirts first.

There was a clatter from the kitchen and Natasha shouted up at him, “Where do you want these?”

Art supplies. Lots and lots of art supplies. A new sketch book, paints, brushes, pencils, pens. “Anywhere for right now,” Steve waved lazily with his hand, more focused on whether or not jeans should be hanging up or folded and put in a drawer. “Table’s fine.”

The curtains fully set up, Clint jumped from the top of the ladder and landed on the floor in a crouch, digging through a bag like an obnoxious cat for something else to do. Treasa looked up from her large dog bed—that looked more like a giant pillow than anything (Tony had offered to buy some that looked something like a human bed or couch and Steve had firmly refused)—as he landed, her tail wagging, and the archer reached over without looking, scratching behind her ears. “You got a hammock!” The archer sang, holding up the plastic bag. “That’s so cool! Where do ya want it?”

Steve blinked and stared at the small package before glancing around the apartment. To be honest, he had grabbed it on instinct—his last apartment hadn’t even had a mattress in it. “You can hang it in front of the windows,” he pointed at the open area between the kitchen and where Bruce was standing. The light, during a sunny day, would be bright enough that he could read there if he wanted to.

Grinning broadly, the archer tugged Bruce along with him, forcing the scientist hold onto the ladder again as he scrambled up the rungs so he could screw hooks into the wall. Treasa stared up at him, mouth closed with the expression on her face—as only a dog could have—like she was expecting him to fall.

By the way Bruce was grimly holding onto the ladder, he thought the same.

“Your silverware’s done,” Natasha pushed a knife rack back against the wall, next to his stove. “Anything else I can help with?”

“Steve’s laptop is ready for pickup,” Tony grinned, holding up his phone and Natasha levelled a look at him that would make even Thor back away.

“I wasn’t asking you,” The redhead sniped and looked back up at the soldier. “Steve?”

He looked around at the bags and boxes still on the floor. Some held who knew what (because Tony Stark could not _help_ himself with buying many expensive things). “Do you mind looking through all that?” The soldier motioned vaguely.

“That’s what I’m here for,” She responded dryly and dodged one end of a hammock that came tumbling down from where Clint was tying it to the hook.

It only took a few more hours until everything was set up, boxes put out for recycling, and Steve was hanging his shield up on the wall across from his bed.

“We figured we’d go out for a bite,” Clint called up to him. “You in?”

Steve traced the silver star with a finger. “I think I’ll stay in,” He said. “Get used to the place.”

Shrugging, the archer nodded. “Sure thing, Cap.” The rest of the Avengers shouted their good wishes as they filed out the door, leaving the soldier to sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the shield as it was lit up by the soft, orange light of the apartment. The noise was suddenly gone, leaving him with the silence of his new home and the sounds of laughter drifting through the windows.

Treasa padded up the staircase and sat close to his leg, her muzzle resting on his knee.

“Hey, girl,” he murmured, running his fingers over her head, scratching the back of her ears, and cupping her cheeks. “Look at this brand new world, huh?”

Treasa snuffled, resting her paws on his thighs and pressed her nose against his neck. His arms wrapped across her ribs, fingers tangling with the long fur on her back. They stayed like that for a long moment, sitting there, and then Steve pulled back.

“That’s enough wallowing for one day, yeah?” Her tail wagged, tongue lolling from her mouth, and Treasa dropped to the floor as he stood up, following at his heels while he headed down the stairs. “I think a nice, long walk is in order.”

She barked in agreement.

Steve remembered a time when there was a point where Brooklyn fell quiet. It didn’t always happen, not in the more bustling areas, but sometimes, in the neighbourhoods, everything fell still and silent and the early morning hours felt like a ghost town.

There was still movement, now. People on the streets, lights turned on, the sound of televisions through open windows. Someone was watching a baseball game, another had a movie playing. The captain shoved his hands deep in his pockets and breathed in the crisp, summer air. Treasa padded along beside him, no leash in sight. She kept to his right, footsteps matching his own as the lamps hovering above made her eyes glow like molten gold. Looking more wolf than dog, the Bohemian Shepherd’s head stayed low, her movements like smooth silk as Steve picked up the pace.

There used to be a barbershop on that corner. A bar on that one. The alley he had gotten beat up in was blocked off by a fence and trash bins.

Steve started with a brisk walk and, by the time they rounded three blocks, a jog, seeing everything that had changed like it was an overlapping picture. Each time the soldier rounded a street he expected to find something familiar, something old, and felt a brief pang in his chest when the world reminded him that this wasn’t the area he grew up in.

Treasa kept pace with him, picking up speed when he did until they were running down the street. His shoes echoed against brick buildings, sounding like gunshots in the dark they seemed so loud.

The movie theatre was a parking lot and, turning down an alley, Steve braced himself up against a wall, gasping, eyes wide as his heart hammered in his chest. _Everything was gone—everything..._ Wiping one hand roughly across his eyes, the captain got his breathing under control and straightened up, spine almost cracking under the force of him demanding it to stay straight.

He was a soldier, damn it. He was _Steve Rogers_.

He could—all of his thoughts were cut off as Steve faced the inside of an alleyway and found himself in a familiar maze of twists and turns, dead ends and openings. He started running as if that would leave his thoughts behind, letting _them_ get lost on the back streets of Brooklyn. It was easy to find where to go—if you had lived there all your life. Seventy years hadn’t changed the alleys of Brooklyn one bit and Steve Rogers traced them all out again at a sprint, Treasa at his side.

If the captain ran a little bit faster when they passed his old apartment (remodelled, new with a fresh paint job and hardly looking anything like the ancient, rag-tag building he had once known), well, there was no one around to say anything.

Treasa started to lag after the third mile and he slowed down for her sake, going back to the brisk walk so he didn’t lose that single-mindedness that came with running away from his problems. She kept pace with him still and he knew that she would be able to, one day, make a whole run with him. Her breed was used to long work days and a fast paced schedule. Rigorous tasks and activities.

Steve couldn’t wait for the day when they could just leave the apartment and run.

Run and run without stopping until they left the city and the future behind them.

For now, though, he turned back around and started jogging back home, knowing that she would follow.

The neighbourhood went silent—the type of silence that came with snowfall and ice, the type of silence that came at night or in a forest in Germany when the opposing forces were just over the hill, waiting for them.

This was the silence of crickets and cats in alleyways, of dogs barking and papers blowing in gentle breezes. This was a silence Steve had heard before and, without registering what he was doing, he ducked into a side alley, stopped, and listened.

There were no sound of insects, no night time birds. He breathed out shallowly through his mouth, kneeling beside Treasa and looked up, scanning rooftops, scanning the sky for any dark figure blocking out the dim light of the stars.

Steve turned and scooped up his dog into his arms and he ran.

He ran through the alleyways, feet sliding across asphalt, jumped over fences, and ducked behind garbage bins and dumpsters. There was no path to follow because the one he left didn’t make sense; circle after circle where only someone who had lived here just as he had would know.

(Seventy years hadn’t changed a damn thing.)

Treasa was released on a fire escape and they climbed like ghosts, keeping silent in the stillness even as they reached the roof. They stayed there, immobile and quiet, laying flat and waiting.

Half of survival was waiting and hiding. There was a small wall—up to Steve’s knees—that they pressed down behind. Treasa laid close to him, their ribs touching with every breath and he reached around her neck, unlatching the collar and shoving it into his pocket so the name tag wouldn’t clink when they moved.

 _Smart dog_ , he wanted to whisper to her, _good dog._ But the night was too still for that.

Too quiet.

A bit of shame welled up in Steve’s gut, clenching his stomach and gripping his heart because look at him, a soldier lying on a rooftop because the night was too silent. He told that part of himself to _shut the hell up_ because he may be a bit out of time, but instincts never changed.

Hunters never changed.

And whatever was in this neighbourhood was a hunter.

But the crickets started up again, the birds called out, and he started to move—slowly at first, and then faster, army crawling across the rooftop. They stayed up high—jumping from building to building and only climbed down when they were close to home. Still, Steve kept to the alleys, staying off the streets and was grateful for the door at the back of his apartment building. The lock was rusted a bit, but—with a few rough tugs—it clicked open.

His apartment was still locked, no sign of forced entry, and he pushed it open, breathing out slowly at the sight of the moon rising above the city. It was beautiful and clear—all those angles highlighted against that bright, white circle.

He wanted to paint it—all smooth strokes. Oil would be best, or maybe watercolour. There was a little bit of yellow from lit up buildings and they looked like mock copies of stars against the night sky.

Steve didn’t turn the lights on and put his keys on the counter, the metal clinking against granite. The painting could wait. He took Treasa’s new bowl and placed it on the table, reaching for the dog food. “You hungry, girl?”

She didn’t answer and he looked back at her—that dark, shadowed creature standing in the middle of the room, her eyes shining, pupils flashing silver, red, and green with the reflected moonlight. Her ears were forward, pointed, staring at something out the window.

The very tips of her canines were bared—two dots of white against her black fur and she had never looked so animalistic, never so wild than in that moment.

Steve listened.

And heard nothing.

 _Shit—_ turning on his heel to face the window, to see what she saw, he felt it—burning, slicing through his side, just under his arm and over his ribs. The serum made him move quickly—faster than any other human—and Steve knew that it was only that speed that saved him from a bullet to the heart or through his lungs.

Brick crumbled and crunched while the soldier crashed to the floor, instinct taking over as he let his head loll to the side, eyes staring blankly out at the moon. One hand gripped Treasa’s ruff and forced her down behind his body while still making it look like he was splayed, limp, across the ground.

 _Dead, dead, dead_ , became the  mantra in Steve’s mind, pounding along with his heart beat that seemed like thunder to his ears as he held his breath. _Dead, dead, dead._ His ribcage felt like it would burst open and something warm was spreading out along the side of his body. It smelled like copper, it felt wet and sticky. That knowledge seemed to make his heart pound even louder, thundering in his skull and chest. He could feel each beat as if he was holding the muscle in his hand.

The clock on the wall read 11:32—just barely visibly out of the corner of his eye, glowing green in the dark, and the small dots between the numbers flashed on and off, on and off as the seconds ticked past, one by one by one.

11:34; he saw movement. A flash of metal—silver or something close—from the rooftop across the street. A black figure was standing up, features hidden by the moon that silhouetted him. For a moment, the person stood there and Steve could feel the eyes upon him, watching for signs of life but he stayed oh, so still ( _be dead, be dead, they won’t shoot again if you’re dead_ )...

The man turned around and vanished across the dark rooftops. There was no a second shot and no sign of the assassin coming back, but Steve waited another minute, still holding his breath—

Treasa whined, breaking the silence and the thundering in his head and Steve let her go, scrambling up to his feet and ignored the dog food scattered across the floor. The moon was bright and he needed it, scuttling up the stairs and grabbing a duffle bag that Tony Stark (gracious, money spending Tony Stark) had bought for him. He had spent ten minutes arguing the fact with the man and now the soldier knew he would owe the billionaire a favour.

Many, _many_ favours.

Three sets of clothes were thrown in, a few water bottles, portable food and water carriers for Treasa. He grabbed a wide, circular bag that had been folded up in the wardrobe and shoved that in there too before he shed his hooded sweatshirt, his now bloodied shirt, and snatched up new ones even as his side ached from each frantic motion.

It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before—the first wound he had gotten in this new body was across the same side from rocks on the streets of Brooklyn when a yellow taxi had crashed and rolled across the ground.

Criss-crossing leather was clipped on over his clothes and, with only a second of hesitation where he stared at the shield, Steve pulled it off the wall, threw it over his back, and sprinted back down the steps. There was a drawstring backpack Clint had left earlier and, sending a silent apology to the archer, he picked it up and filled it with his wallet, an umbrella, and his sketchbook.

The soldier didn’t bother locking the apartment this time—whoever was after him would break in anyway if they were actually looking for something. Treasa followed him every step of the way, watching him with those big, brown eyes of hers as they strode back into the alley, the summer night air growing cold around them.

Each of her footsteps lagged just a bit and he knew she was tired—God, _he_ was tired—but she followed him doggedly, step for step.

Steve looked back at the apartment—what he had hoped would become his new home in this brave new world—and turned around, hoisted the sweatshirt’s hood over his head, and walked off into the night.

A man and his dog, disappearing into the shadows of the world until even the light of the moon couldn’t make the shield shine.

* * *

 

Avengers Tower blared red and white, the alarm startling most of them because, well, everyone except for Clint was a horrible insomniac (seriously, the guy could sleep on _anything_ ) and it wasn’t late enough for any of them to be heading off to bed anyway.

“Jarvis!” Tony Stark yelled, hands over his ears as the alarm continued to blare, pieces of a new suit strewn out around him. “ _Jarvis!_ Turn it off and just tell me what’s wrong!”

The red, flashing lights stuttered to a stop. _“Sir, I think it might be better if you and the rest of the team were to hear all of this together in the lounge area.”_ Opening automatically, the door to the laboratory beckoned Tony to follow the AI’s instructions.

Sighing, the billionaire set down his tools and stood up. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But it better be something _stellar_ for all those bells and whistles.”

_“I think you might find that it was, sir.”_

The elevator took Tony immediately to the top floor where the rest of the Avengers waited, either looking as if they were lounging about (but he could see the stiffness in their limbs) or tensed up like springs. Natasha and Clint were both seated on the sofa, leaning together and whispering, Bruce looked a bit wild—his hair sticking up in all directions—and Pepper seemed to be wiping at a wet stain on the abdomen of her shirt, mug of tea sitting off to the side.

“Okay, Jarvis. We’re all here.” Flopping down on the couch between the two spies, he grinned at their dirty looks.

 _“At precisely 11:32 pm this evening, Captain Rogers’ window alarm reported that something had broken the glass.”_ A holographic image of the alarm system came up, showing them the interior of the captain’s apartment. The windows, highlighted in red, were turned towards them.

Clint yawned. “So the guy broke a window, big deal—”

 _“That would indeed be amusing, Agent Barton, had it not been the fact that what had gone through the window came from the outside and it didn’t shatter the window.”_ The image zoomed in and they saw it—the hole in the glass. _“According to the pressure sensors on the floor, Captain Rogers was standing here—”_ the hologram shifted so they could see the footprints glowing on the ground, a figure of the man growing out of them. _“—when the window was pierced and this,”_ they watched the footprints jerk and, suddenly, a whole body image appeared on the sensors, _“came next.”_

“Fuck,” the archer breathed—and that did, pretty much, cover it. “ _Fuck!_ ” Clint shot to his feet, running his fingers through his hair so roughly it looked as if he wanted to rip every strand out. “We left him alone for, what, a _day_ and the guy is already being _targeted_?”

There was a moment of silence and then.

“ _Fuck!_ ” The archer threw his hands up and paced across the floor, everyone’s eyes on him.

“Would anyone else like to share their opinion?” Tony asked, crossing his arms over his chest, staring down the others sitting on his couch.

“No,” Natasha shook her head.

Bruce grinned ruefully, hands tightening into fists and relaxing again at his sides. “I think Clint covered it.”

“Well,” The billionaire calmly pushed the archer back onto the couch. “Now that that’s covered, Widow, Hawkeye, you two will be in charge of going through his apartment, Jarvis and Bruce will scan through the video feeds.”

“And you?” the redhead stood up, her eyes dark and glinting against the light of the hologram as she traced the line of the bullet with a finger.

Tony gave her a pained smile. “I’m going to take him to the hospital.”

The Avengers scattered, Natasha and Clint going back to their rooms to gather their supplies and gear while Tony climbed into his suit. Fire rumbled beneath him as he took off, shooting across Manhattan and heading towards Brooklyn.

 _Please don’t be dead_ , Tony thought as the lights of the city turned into a blur—and then everything became black for a second except for the reflection of his armour in the river as he left the island behind. A rooftop wasn’t the ideal place to land (just look at his house in Malibu—it certainly remembered his first time in the actual armour), but seeing that it was the only flat stretch of ground that wasn’t the street, Tony gently lowered himself until he landed with a slight _thump_. The suit wasn’t made for running, exactly, but the billionaire tried his best (he also tried his best not to crash down the stairs and made it alive—but just barely).

The door was unlocked and swung open at his touch. Dog food crunched underneath the boots of the suit and Tony Stark stepped free of the metal, dodging around the kibbles spread across the ground from a bag that had been dropped by the counter. A silver, metallic bowl rolled off to the side when his foot hit it, sending it clanging up against the stairs.

There wasn’t a body. No limp form lying still upon the ground. There wasn’t even too much blood that he could see—but the lights were off and the light of the moon could only reach so far.

“He’s not here,” Tony breathed and reached over, fumbling for the light and finally clicking on a lamp.

There was blood on the floor—spread out in a long line where it was straight on one side and curved on the other. Some parts had been smeared across the wood like someone had taken their fingers and dragged them through half dried paint.

“Barton, Romanoff,” he pressed one finger to his ear and heard a light buzz for a moment.

 _“What?”_ Came the archer’s voice, the sound of a radio hastily being turned down in the background. _“We’re almost there, Stark, give us a minute—”_

Tony swept away the kibbles on the floor with his hand. “He’s gone. Both him and Treasa. There’s blood, but not enough for a kill wound.” Stepping back into the suit, the billionaire had JARVIS pull up the holographic imagery that had been shown at the tower. “The shot missed.”

As though reading his thoughts, the screen in the headpiece of the suit lit up, highlighting the trajectory of the bullet, where Steve had been standing, calculating where it would have hit according to the sensors in the floor.

“Remind me to put pressure sensors in the walls when I’m done,” Tony said to Clint and Natasha as they came through the door. “I can’t measure the speed of the bullet without knowing when it _hit_ the wall.”

“What are you trying to find?” The archer moved forward, crouching beside the small puddle of rapidly drying blood.

Natasha hovered by the brick wall, running her fingers over the grooves. She glanced back at the window, measuring it, looking past to the roof, and slowly crouched down. “Tony,” the redhead murmured and pulled a knife out of her boot. Metal dug through the brick, cutting away stone until a lead bullet hit the ground with a small _thunk_. Soviet slug, no rifling. “I found your bullet,” holding it up between two fingers, the redhead frowned, eyes flashing. “There’s some blood on it.”

“Good to know we’ve got the right one,” the billionaire grumbled. “So we’ve got an injured super soldier out there being hunted by who knows what—”

Natasha tuned him out, rolling the bullet in her palm. She started towards the stairs without really realizing what she was doing and headed up. The lofted bedroom they had helped put together earlier wasn’t a mess, but the wardrobe had been flung open, some clothes scattered across the ground.

The shield was missing.

“We need to find him,” she said.

“What do you think Bruce and Jarvis are doing?” Tony called up and, despite the emotionless face of the Iron Man suit, she knew he was rolling his eyes. “They’re not just sitting there with thumbs up their asses.”

Natasha ignored him, coming back down the stairs. “We need to keep SHIELD out of this,” she told Clint who looked up from brushing dog food out of his way.

“What?”

“Someone knew about him. Someone with connections. We can’t trust anyone,” she held out the bullet to him and Tony leaned forward to get a look.

Clint took the lead between his thumb and index finger. His eyes looked over every detail, missing nothing, before they turned up to her—sharp and piercing like the bird of prey he was named after. “Is it him?”

“Yes,” Natasha murmured.

“Is it who?” Tony looked back and forth between the two of them—the whole thing made even more comical by the metal suit he was wearing.

The two spies kept their eyes locked before the redhead turned to the billionaire. “This place is being watched,” Natasha told him. “We’ll tell you back at the tower.”

For a long moment, the blank stare of the Iron Man suit watched her, and then Tony nodded. “Fair. Jarvis, did you and Banner pick up anything on the cameras?”

 _“Nothing so far, sir_ ,” The AI reported dryly. _“So far the only movement is a 1993 white Honda Civic driving past.”_ They saw the headlights out of the window, lighting up the street before the car sped out of sight.

“ _Thank you_ , Jarvis,” Tony ground out. “What about the rooftops?”

If a computer could sigh, JARVIS would have; loudly and as if he was in exasperated pain. _“There are no cameras pointed at the rooftops, sir.”_

“I should fix that.”

_“If you say so, sir.”_

The billionaire paused. “Are you being sassy with me?”

 _“Of course not, sir,”_ came the dry response. _“However, there is something that you might want to see.”_ An image appeared on the screen in the suit of a man with dark hair wearing all black. What the billionaire could see of his skin was pasty white, but the part that was the most interesting was the silver, metallic arm.

“Where was that taken?”

The two spies looked up from the blood on the floor, watching him and Tony shook his head ever so slightly. He’d show them later—like they said; eyes and ears everywhere.

_“Three blocks south of Captain Rogers’ apartment and five minutes after the shot took place.”_

“Bingo,” the faceplate went up so the billionaire could look at both agents in the eye. “We’ve got a hit. I’ll meet you back at the tower.”

He left before he could see their faces. Their drawn in, hard, cold faces.

“We’re so fucked, aren’t we?” Clint muttered in the still apartment.

Natasha snorted. “You have _no_ idea.”

* * *

 

Sometimes being the director of SHIELD meant being contacted at weird ass times in the middle of the night.

Sometimes being the director of SHIELD meant that you gotta separate the people who can do stuff on their own from the people who needed you to wipe their ass every five goddamn minutes.

Unfortunately for Nick Fury, the person Agent Hill had sent up with ‘urgent information’ was one of the ‘I need my butt wiped’ category. He pressed two fingers against his forehead and glared at the agent babbling in front of him before holding out his hand for the file. It was quickly pressed against his palm before the young man was almost sprinting out of his office.

Flipping open the folder, he looked over the first page, saw the picture paper clipped to the side, and pressed the intercom button on his desk. “What the hell is this?”

Hill sounded amused and he thought, for a moment, about sending her off to New York to keep an eye on Stark. That would cure up that nonsense. _“We received Intel about a figure that looked like the Winter Soldier being spotted in Brooklyn, New York.”_

“And you didn’t bring it up to me yourself _because_?” He tapped his index finger over the muzzle-like mask on the assassin’s face.

 _“I thought you wanted to meet the new interns, sir.”_ Definitely amused.

Fury leaned back in his leather desk chair, fighting the urge to fire someone. “Agent Hill.”

_“Yes, sir?”_

“Get your ass up here.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

She took her goddamn time, too. He drummed his fingers on his desk, watching the elevator and leaning forward in his chair until she arrived—with another folder. “What the hell is that?”

“Iron Man was spotted in the same area as the Winter Soldier,” Hill said, sitting down in the chair across from him without a by-your-leave. Handing over the second folder, she crossed her hands over her lap and sat up like her spine was _made_ from steel. “We’re tracking Stark now, but it appears that he went to this address and hasn’t left yet.”

Fury looked over the numbers before his single eye turned up to stare at her. “And?”

“ _That’s_ where it gets interesting.”

He was getting too damn old for this shit. Fighting the urge to groan, the director flipped over the page to look at the, apparently, new owner of the apartment. It had been bought only a week before by one... “Steven G. Rogers.” Fury looked at the driver’s license photo. The blonde hair and wide, blue eyes that stared out at them as if the picture itself was trying to figure out just what was going on. The man oozed military but, more than that—“He’s _dead_.”

“Or looking pretty spry for a ninety year old,” Hill crossed her arms over her chest. “Except for the new haircut, either this man is Captain Steve Rogers or a very, very close relation.”

“Cloning?”

“SHIELD ran out of Rogers’ DNA in the 1950’s when the serum research went bust,” Hill stared at him, her dark eyes unblinking and glinting like sharp blades in the dim lighting of his office. “If anyone else had, somehow, gotten a hold of his DNA, they’d never shared.”

Fury put down the file. “And this is who the Winter Soldier was sent to kill.”

“We think so.”

“Did he succeed?”

“Unknown.”

Rubbing a hand over his forehead, the director sighed.

He _really_ was getting to old for this shit.


	2. Chapter 2

“Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.”

Dorothy Parker

* * *

 

 The helicopter was waiting for Nick Fury outside his office before the sun had even risen. It’s black body and the grey, iron bird on the side were lit up by the Potomac and the City of Washington D.C.. For a moment, the director stared at it. The last time he had to ride in a helicopter and Tony Stark was involved Manhattan almost blew up.

Hopefully it won’t happen this time (the director, however, knew that hoping was useless. When Tony Stark was around something _always_ blew up) but Fury didn’t get his hopes up too much. Strapping himself in, he dialled Agent Romanoff again and listened as it went through to voicemail. Again. There was no bothering trying to contact Barton; if the Black Widow hadn’t answered, neither would Hawkeye. Two peas in a pod that no one really had a handle on.

The United States passed below him—the White house standing out like a beacon. Fury flew onward, up state, seeing where the lights ended and the ocean began. That big stretch of blackness that it was like the world ended on the coastline. A ship would break it up every now and then, but the shadows of the sea eventually swallowed them.

Leaning back into his seat, the director tore his eyes away from the ocean and waited for New York to appear on the horizon.

Gleaming, creating its own constellations, the city did. One by one the glowing rows of windows appeared, rising higher and higher as if they all were a magical beanstalk—growing without stopping, touching the sky and creating the pathway to giants. Lady Liberty saluted him in the harbour, her green face lit up from all angles.

And there it was. Right smack in the middle of the city.

Stark tower.

It glowed brighter than the rest, the curving architecture white rather than the dim yellow—an after effect of the arc reactor technology for sure, as well a whole lot of LEDs. The large A stood out at the stop, lighting up the helicopter pad with just dimmed shadows until the entire thing was suddenly a red and gold target. JARVIS’ way to welcome him, Fury guessed.

No one came out to greet him, but that wasn’t a surprise. Tony made an effort to be as rude as possible to all SHIELD agents while being welcoming at the same time. Though, the second part might have been more Pepper and JARVIS than Tony himself. Fury walked down the pathway leading into the building after giving the pilot a glare that ordered the woman to stay behind and in her seat.

“Mr. Stark,” He said immediately upon entry, spotting the billionaire with quite a few holographic screens hovering around him. Natasha was at one of the tables, Clint leaning over her shoulder while they both looked at a Starkpad. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

“Uh,” the inventor waved his hands and everything in front of him vanished—including, it looked like, a bunch of SHIELD files that none of the Avengers had accessed to. “Lounging about, having fun, what about you, Willy?” Stark grinned in that smarmy way he had, snapping his fingers and clapped his hands. “What did we do to get this truly _disarming_ visit?”

Fury walked across the room until he and the billionaire were almost toe to toe. “I think you know, Mr. Stark,” his one good eye widened just slightly, staring down the other man. He was a spy, he knew how to look for lies—and Tony Stark was lying. “For instance, why was your suit spotted in Brooklyn today—”

“I’ll think you’ll find,” Stark crossed his arms over his chest, spine straightening, all humour vanishing from his face. “That I can go where ever I damn well please.”

“—to the same place where a known assassin managed to _possibly_ subdue a target.” Fury tossed his phone to the billionaire and watched as the serious expression got tighter, more wound than he had ever seen it.

Stark scowled. “So they found him through this,” he gritted out, hand clenching around the phone hosting a picture of one Captain Steve Rogers. “Who else knows?”

“Agent Hill,” Fury frowned, watching as the genius started to pace back and forth on the carpet, fingers pressed against his forehead, eyes narrowed and flickering, reading something that the director couldn’t even begin to imagine, let alone see.

“That means that someone with resources called this attack,” Stark mused, hands running down his face before he spun to look at the spies at his table. “You, Barton!”

The archer looked up, glowering. “ _What_?” he snapped.

“Go down to the lab, tell Bruce that we’re looking for someone who probably doesn’t have a budget and is a part of an organization like the FBI, CIA, anyone who can do people searches.”

Snorting, Clint stood and left Natasha to fish through video feeds. “Yeah, cause _that’s_ gonna help—” The elevator doors cut off the rest of his sentence (and, most likely, the rest of his complaints).

Stark breathed out and brushed past Fury, still holding the Director’s phone as he continued to pace, tapping one finger against his bottom lip, the other hand folded along his back.

“Just tell him, Stark,” Natasha spoke up, not looking up from her screen until both men were staring at her. “We’re going to need all the resources he’s got.”

The billionaire snickered, as if that was hilarious, but it slowly faded as her gaze never wavered, eyes never blinking. “Fine, you know what? _Fine_.” He threw his hands up and turned to Fury. “We found Captain America, introduced him to a new century, got him an apartment, and he was shot at. Now we can’t find him.”

The words were spoken so quickly that Fury had to process them for a second—“You _what_?!”

“Found Captain America in the Arctic. _God_ , keep up,” Tony waved his hand and tossed the phone back to the other man. “He wanted to live on his own, though. Get his feet on the ground—”

“And you didn’t inform SHIELD because?” Fury glared at the two of them, eye flickering between the spy and the billionaire. “You don’t think we would have been able to give him legal papers? Housing?”

It was Natasha, however, that spoke up. “SHIELD would have been able to provide for him,” she leaned back in her chair, hands folded across her lap, “But the council would have demanded that he go back into active service.” For a moment, the redhead almost looked regretful, though not towards the director. “And Captain Rogers would have said yes, but he wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Itsy Bitsy is right,” Tony nodded once, his body turned so he was looking out over central park and the island of Manhattan. “He would have _hated_ it, but he still would have done it.”

“Because he’s a soldier,” Fury concluded. “Orders are familiar.”

“But orders are not what he needs,” Natasha  fast forward through some footage, finger pressed against the Starkpad. “The war happened only two months ago for him, he needs time to get back up on his feet.” The muscles in her jaw tensed up, both hands waving at the chaos currently in front of her—papers, technology, and an empty coffee mug. “And then _this_ happens.”

The billionaire waved his hands and all the screens that had been hovering before him when Fury walked into the tower appeared again. They were SHIELD files, but also CIA, FBI, and other intelligence organizations. “Whoever found him was looking _for_ him.”

“I think I can help with that,” Fury gritted out. “Every new recruit is given a test of sorts when they first join. A person search. As a joke, some people—” Tony opened his mouth to comment and the Director quickly cut him off, “ _Before_ I was the Director of SHIELD, decided that the search be of Captain America in Brooklyn.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly, thinking, pieces falling together. “Of course, the whole joke was that there wasn’t someone with the name Steven Rogers living in Brooklyn. Recruits were supposed to get no results and feel like they failed.”

Tony frowned, but his eyes were glinting. “That sounds like something SHIELD would do.”

Resisting the urge to bare his teeth, Fury just scowled at the inventor. “Someone must have found him and reported it to their advisors, who would check the results and then report that to a higher up.”

“And if that higher up doesn’t, exactly, report to you?” The billionaire watched him. “What then?”

“Then, Mr. Stark, we have a whole other problem on our hands.”

* * *

 

The leather felt _amazing_ under Steve’s hands; comfortable, slightly squishy, and surprisingly familiar when each gear shifted into place as the night passed him by. There was a map strung out across the passenger seat, a route highlighted in sharpie (he had found both in the glove box). Bright lights passed through the rear view mirror and the captain glanced up and saw Treasa laid across the back seats, her eyes closed, tail laying flat against her body.

Underneath his feet, the Honda rumbled. It wasn’t old by his standards—automatics were just plain _odd_ in his opinion—but the fact that it wasn’t a brand new car meant that there was no GPS, no fancy radio.

No way to track him through the vehicle, if that was possible.

(It was the future, a lot of things were possible.)

In the morning, though, the owner would find it missing and report it, so he’d have to leave it someplace. Natasha had mentioned once that malls had security. If he left it in one of those parking lots there would be a greater chance of it being found before anyone else could take it for a joyride.

Steve snorted at that thought—on the run and he was thinking about the owner of the car. The shock must have hit him harder than he thought. One hand moved absently down, brushing the bandage along his ribs. The wound stung and had started to throb an hour ago when he had passed the third toll (no one told him about those—but then again, he had never expected himself to take a spontaneous road trip south).

God, he wanted a hamburger.

Or three.

Treasa huffed in the back seat, her nose twitching and Steve turned on the radio to distract himself from both the thoughts and the mindlessness of the road. He wasn’t alone, though—there were other people driving alongside him in both larger and more expensive cars.

Like driving in Germany, Steve kept reminding himself. When the Howling Commandos had been stranded between Nazi soldiers and a city, he and Bucky had stolen a car and civilian clothing. No one stopped them—the car was expensive and they sang out loudly in German whenever they passed by anyone who even looked like they could be soldiers.

The secret was to act like you belonged. The secret was to get out alive through any means necessary—including stealing a member of the inner circle’s car.

(To be quite honest none of them had realized who it belonged to—it was just red and expensive and looked like something that young people who had too much time on their hands would drive. Howard Stark had laughed himself silly when they returned with it.)

( _No, no, don’t think of Howard. Don’t think of Peggy._ )

Two hours left. He could think of that. Two hours left and four hours until sunrise. He’d drop the car off soon, Steve promised himself, looking at the signs on the side of the highway. Drop the car off, get some coffee, and then get back on the road.

Maybe he could head to Bu—

Steve’s hands tightened viciously on the wheel.

Tires screeching, the soldier was glad no one else was on the road while he pulled off onto the next exit, skipping over three lanes and almost going over the grass. A sign for a 24-hour cafe lit up and he followed the directions—one right and a left—before turning off the car in the parking lot. Treasa whined, her head rising and he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

_Calm down_ , he urged his rapidly beating heart. _Calm, calm, I’m calm_.

Something cold and wet pressed against the back of his neck. Treasa.

_I’m calm, I’m calm, I’m **fucking** calm—_

_“Here’s a song for all those late night drivers—”_

Steve kicked the door open and didn’t even make it to the curb, sliding down against the tiny Honda Civic, resting the back of his head against the white paint. His eyes closed, knees pulled up to his chest, and he heard rather than saw Treasa jump out of the car. Her warm body pressed up against him, nose burrowing between his arms until he was clinging to her, trying to even out his rapid gasps and still his trembling hands.

Something clicked against asphalt and Steve stilled, his side aching, thoughts whirling—but Treasa’s tail wagged and she snuffled against his cheek before gently licking his nose. “Ugh,” the captain leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across the wet spot. “That’s _gross_ —”

There was a woman standing next to him, Some dabs of powdered sugar decorated her long green apron. It covered her white shirt and black slacks, a name tag sitting on the top.

_Jaquita_.

She held a clear, plastic cup full of a drink that was a dark pink colour, green straw sticking out of it like a flag pole, clinking against the ice cubes. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” the young woman smiled, her brown hair falling across her shoulders. The orange light made her skin look almost mahogany, wide, dark eyes seeming even darker by the light of the moon. “It’s passion fruit tea with a shot of strawberry syrup.”

Slowly, he accepted it and she slid down to sit next to him, moving the apron out of the way so it wouldn’t get caught under her knees. “Thank you,” Steve muttered and grunted when Treasa wiggled her way onto his lap, her tail wagging, muzzle resting on his shoulder. “You are a menace,” he grunted, but scratched the back of her ears while she huffed and sniffed.

The tea was sweet and strong, bursting across his tongue with enough _pow_ to make him cough in surprise.

Jaquita laughed. “My brother gets it a lot,” she grinned, her eyes bright. “Especially after he, um...” she trailed off, shifting slightly. “Especially after one of his panic attacks.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something—it would have probably been hurtful if not for the fact that Treasa pressed her paws into his thigh and he yelped, almost spilling the tea all over them both. She walked off his lap, huffing before she jumped back into the car.

Glaring after her, the soldier turned back to the woman sitting next to him. “You’re, uh, brother?”

She nodded and he watched the tension practically ooze out of her body until her head was resting against the car as well. “He served for three tours.”

Steve nodded and twisted the straw around in the cup before taking another drink. It was still as sweet, but he didn’t feel the shock of it as he had before.

His heart wasn’t pounding. His lungs felt at ease.

Steve pulled back and stared at the cup of tea. The entire thing was cooling, refreshing, and like diving into a pool on a blistering day.

“It’s magical, isn’t it?” Jaquita laughed. “My brother said that it always brings him back because the army would never give him something so disgustingly sweet.”

Okay, yes, _that_ was something that Steve could agree with. Granted, the only thing in the 40’s that had been this sweet was sugar straight out of the bag—which he couldn’t really afford, after all.

“Thank you,” he said again when he finished off the drink and only a few rattling ice cubes were left.

The young woman waved her hand, smiling lightly and getting back to her feet, wiping off the back of her pants. “You’re welcome,” she said and then frowned when he grabbed his wallet. “No, no,” Jaquita pushed his money back towards him. “It’s on the house.”

“But—”

She winked. “Next one won’t be free, mister.” And, before the soldier could do anything, she was already heading back inside.

Steve didn’t know if he would ever be able to come back and visit but, as he tossed the cup into the recycling, the soldier memorized the name of the place, just in case. He got back into the car, watched Treasa settle back down on the seat, and pulled out of the parking lot. The highway stretched out before him and the soldier turned the radio up. Passion fruit ice tea with strawberry syrup sweet in his mouth.

Steve was at the next toll when he groaned, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, ignoring the poor person inside the window who was waiting for his money.

He’d forgotten to switch the car.

* * *

 

Natasha rubbed her fingers against her forehead, Fury and Stark still standing in the living room, tracking down possible agents in SHIELD who could have been a part of the attack. She, however, went through the camera footage a few more times, just in caused she missed anything.

There was no sign of Captain Rogers on any of them, not since he had gone for a jog. Standing up, the spy went to fill her mug with more coffee, ignoring the creamer and sugar on the counter. He was from the forties. How could someone from the forties be able to hide during the twenty-first century?

Her tone of thoughts weren’t condescending, but rather confused—and a bit in awe. He had disappeared from under their noses, managed to avoid cameras, phones, _everything_ since he had fled. Natasha leaned up against the counter, sipping at the bitter liquid and pulled a pen and notepad close, tapping the tip against her wrist.

The secret to finding someone was to figure out what they didn’t have.

First. No credit or debit cards. Steve had understood the concept but hadn’t wanted to deal with them until he had a full grasp on the century. Granted, she couldn’t blame him for that; there were people even _now_ who didn’t understand them.

Second. Grew up during the depression. He knew what he needed and didn’t need, where he could get it for cheap and where it was more costly. Going through the grocery store had been an eye opener—even without coupons he managed to cut the food bill in half. The poptart fiasco had been pretty hilarious; Tony realizing three months later that he was eating the cheaper store brand that had just been placed in old poptart boxes (she thought that a genius would read but, evidently, not).

Third. He was a soldier. He didn’t need a car or a plane, he would just walk to where he wanted. Steve had told her the story about how he and four hundred men had walked thirty miles from a HYDRA base back to a United States military camp. Plus, everyone had seen him work out in the gym; how the super soldier had ran over fifty miles on the treadmill before slowing down.

They didn’t know what else he could do. His secrets were locked up just as tight as hers or Clint’s. Natasha tapped the pen against her bottom lip, biting the inside of her cheek.

Fourth. He liked art. There wasn’t much else to say on that subject because she knew the art of disguises, of make-up. How to look a certain way, what to wear. Painting, drawing? The spy knew next to nothing on that.

Fifth...

Natasha bit the back of the pen, glancing over to where Tony and Fury were still conversing. Books, what could she remember from books? He was foolishly brave, confident, a genius at strategy. If she was Steve Rogers, where would she go?

Someplace familiar? No.

No, that’s expected. He’s running, hiding, confused, and possibly hurt. Plus, he had to think of Treasa. She had to get food, water, shelter. He couldn’t just—

The spy froze, pen dropping from her mouth as she scrambled for the kitchen table and the image of Steve, stopping the search before it completed a fourth time.

Treasa. That was it, that was the secret. She had been looking in the wrong place this _entire_ time—

Natasha sat back down in the wooden chair and pulled a picture off her phone of Steve laying across the couch, head on the headrest and grinning softly up at the camera. He was upside down, hair falling back across the black leather. His bohemian shepherd was on his chest, tongue lolling from her mouth, dark eyes wide. She looked happy, her paws on the captain’s shoulder. It was a cute picture, one the spy had thought about saving for her phone background (her _private_ phone, SHIELD agents weren’t allowed to personalize their professional ones). Now it was uploaded and she sent a search—not for Steve’s face, but for Treasa, her colour pattern, her looks, her breed.

Bitter coffee was hardly noticed as Natasha took another sip, typing out on the Starkpad, limiting the search to the east coast, starting in Maine and heading downward. The green bar showing how far the entire thing was to being completed inched along the black box. Fifteen percent. Twenty.

She took another sip of her coffee.

It was getting cold.

The green inched farther still, creeping forward—and at fifty-five percent, it stopped. The State of Maryland filled her screen and zooming in even farther.

Washington DC. A toll camera took a picture of a dog poking her head out the window. Bohemian shepherd in a 1993 white Honda Civic. It didn’t get the driver’s face, but that Patriot’s hat was one that Pepper had jokingly shoved into a cart and the white t-shirt had _Stark Industries_ in navy over the heart.

She followed the road, mapped out any places Steve could go. What did he hope to find there? Security? Help? Was it just a stopping point? Natasha closed down the program and stood back up, glancing over to where Tony and Fury were still talking. Her computer, she’d need that. A few guns, a bag full of clothes, and maybe one of Stark’s cars—if she asked JARVIS nicely.

The redhead set her mug in the sink and grabbed her jacket off the chair already looking up the route that would take her from New York to Maryland on her phone.

* * *

 

It was paranoia, Steve knew, but habits were hard to break so he hid his duffle bag and shield up in a tree to fetch them later and about for another ten minutes, parking at the side of a sign that announced the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial. He tugged a New England Patriot hat down over his head and got out of the stolen car. Treasa followed him as he swung his backpack around his shoulders, settling on the grass, sniffing at signs as he unwound her leash.

He locked the car, snapped the leash to her collar (purely for everyone else’s comfort as she trotted next to his heel anyway), and took off at a slow jog—just another person running in the early hours. Some people smiled at him and nodded in greeting, others looked past him, but he was just one of them, getting in his exercise during the morning before work. The map of DC he had gotten from the Capitol building’s tourist centre was heavy in his pocket and he opened it after a mile in, leaning against a tree as the city started to wake up. It wasn’t too difficult to find where he was compared to the blue circle he had drawn to make where his things were, and Steve set off, jogging towards the Lincoln Memorial and reflecting pool.  

There still wasn’t too many people in on the walks (the sun just rising over the trees) when he climbed up the ash tree and pulled his duffle bag and shield down. He had placed the vibranium in the circular, protection bag (not that it needed it) and started off through the city to look for breakfast, Treasa trotting along beside him. They found a place a bit off the beaten track, close enough to the tourist attractions that he could easily blend in with someone who had just arrived.

For the rest of the day, he toured and saw Abraham Lincoln sitting on the large, white throne, overlooking the reflection pool, stared up the towering, white obelisk, and walked the trail that lead to the Thomas Jefferson memorial. While Treasa napped for a couple of hours (she deserved it after the long night they had), Steve tossed bread to ducks and geese, handing off a few pieces to the children taking a break for lunch so that they could laugh and giggle at the birds.

He took a tour through the Whitehouse—after putting his bags back up in a tree to fetch them afterward while Treasa sat by, on guard—and listened to the history of the building and all the presidents he had slept through. Barack Obama’s face was grinning and solemn, but the soldier smiled up at him anyway—Gale would have been _ecstatic_.

The entire city was beautiful; a mix of green and white, modern and old. He could feel at home here, Steve thought, sitting down on the grass in front of the capitol building. Treasa sat down beside him, sniffing at his pockets for treats until he fished one out.

A Starbucks beckoned for some early evening coffee, but he took one look at their prices and ducked into the smaller coffee shop a few blocks down. There was no sign declaring that dogs weren’t allowed, but Steve poked his head through the door anyway to get the attention of a barista.

“Sorry, but do you allow dogs in here?”

The young man stared at him for a few seconds and shrugged. “We don’t mind as long as they’re not causing trouble.”

“Great,” Steve nodded and opened the door, leading the bohemian shepherd inside. “Thanks.” He set down his bags at a table, got his dog to sit down beside them, and approached the counter. “Can I have three of the raspberry croissants and an espresso con parra,” he dug through his wallet for cash and smiled when he was handed a paper bag. As he waited for his coffee, he set out Treasa’s bowls and filled them with food and water from his water bottle.

Steve watched the night life of the city wake up outside as he waited for his coffee, nibbling on a croissant as the sun sunk and the moon rose. He flipped through the pages of the paper to check baseball news (another habit he had never managed to break), just passing time, eating his croissants as the espresso machine chugged behind the counter.

“Do you need anything else?” The barista asked, setting the mug down in front of the soldier.

“No, but thank you,” Steve smiled at him and wrapped both hands around his coffee, looking down to see that Treasa had finished her food and was laying on the floor, chin resting on the side of his duffle bag. Her sides rose and fell, golden-brown eyes closed as she slept.

He would stay here for a bit longer, the captain figured, flipping through the newspaper to read about politics (even though he wasn’t fully caught up enough, politicians were politicians). If Steve had learned anything during his time in the war, it was that sometimes the best hiding spot was in plain sight—unless someone saw you.

The captain saw _her_ standing across the street just as he had finished the last of his third cup of coffee, typing away on her phone, dark sunglasses large against her face. Blue jeans, white top, leather jacket—she looked just like every other person walking down the sidewalk at dinner time; looking for a place to get a quick bite to eat.

Except her crimson hair.

Everything _except_ her crimson hair and the fact that she glanced up, caught his eye, and stepped out onto the crosswalk. His hand tightened around his mug, eyes dropping back to the newspaper, but Steve couldn’t read anything now. Natasha pushed open the door to the cafe and ordered something that sounded way too sugary and sweet before sitting down across from him, one leg crossed over the other.

“You’re a hard man to find.”

Steve folded the newspaper slowly and set it down beside his last croissant. “Normally,” he said pleasantly, giving her a half smile even though his eyes were hard. “When someone leaves, they don’t want to be found.”

Natasha looked him over—the jogging pants, t-shirt, hat. “We can help you figure this out.”

“But what if you’re part of the problem?” He leaned forward, hands clasping the mug in front of him, tone deceptively kind even though his face couldn’t be cut by a diamond knife, “What if I just wanted to vanish, start a new life, be someone... _different_.”

“You can try to leave the ghosts behind,” the redhead said, her voice soft as the barista set down her coffee in front of her. “But they’ll always follow you.”

Steve gripped his coffee just a bit tighter and forcibly loosened his hand when he heard the ceramic groan. “Like they do to you?” He frowned and  looked away, out the window. “It’s a new century—and a new place to start over.”

“Someone _shot_ at you.”

“And they also thought I was dead,” the Captain scowled. “That is, until you came here.”

The redhead’s face was unreadable. “No one followed me here.”

“They didn’t have to,” Steve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a friend of Tony Stark, your face is public, now—and I know how the press work. People know you’re already gone. And if they don’t know it’s you, then they know it’s one of Stark’s cars.” He pushed his chair back, gathered up the last croissant and put it back in the bag. “All your covers are blown.”

She finished off the last of his coffee and grabbed his duffle bag before he could reach for it. “Then let me help you.”

“ _Help_?” Steve snorted, his voice loud enough that the barista glanced over. Treasa whined and the soldier took a deep breath, taking his bag from the spy. “We should talk about this somewhere else,” he gritted out, walking around her and out the door. She followed, falling in step with him while the dog trotted between them, head down and brown eyes up, flickering between the two of them.

They turned down a few blocks in silence, the moon shining brightly overhead, other people walking by with their dogs, their cell phones, their briefcases. Some wore shoes that clicked against the pavement, others had clothes that whispered in a gentle breeze. It was only until they stopped at an intersection that the captain spoke again. “I woke up and everything was different,” he murmured, staring straight ahead while Natasha glanced over at him. “The people, the technology, the _world_. Everything smells different, tastes different, and I was getting used to it.”

The red hand turned into an emerald walking man and Steve stepped forward with the crowd onto the street. “Someone knew that I was moving into that apartment. They even knew the exact _date_.”

“They were watching.”

“Yes,” the soldier turned them down another street, this one lined with large buildings, the fronts made of glass, while the sidewalk was big enough for an army, much less the few people walking down it now. The crowds of the city were gone—in the way that the business side had been replaced by the younger, more adventurous folk. Bars, clubs, dance halls—whatever they called it now. People never really did change, did they? “And they found out about me—”

Natasha stopped him, though. “That wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she told him, steps echoing across the buildings. “A person search can be done in all the intelligence corporations. But we can’t change that, now.”

“No, we can’t,” Steve murmured and paused, frowning. The leash on his wrist was tugging against the back of his hand. “Treasa?” She had stopped walking, ears moving back and forth, eyes flickering up to the rooftops. The soldier stopped and watched her for a second, the spy turning to glance at him, frowning. “We have to go,” he hissed. “Treasa, _come_.”

Jerking, the bohemian shepherd obeyed, bounding forward as Steve pulled Natasha into a parking garage. The soldier released Treasa of the leash and folded it up sloppily, shoving it into his pocket. “This was such a stupid idea,” Steve muttered, looking around the cold, grey interior and the thick, rectangular beams. Most of the spaces were empty, very few cars left behind and the whole area glowed orange under the dim lights and all three of them took off for the ramp. “You see what’s happening?” He snapped at Natasha.

“Well, I don’t exactly _see_ , anything—”

“Very funny,” The captain turned to her and saw something large and black out of the corner of his eye.

A very large, very intimidating, and going very fast SUV roared through the opening to the parking garage, headlights shining bright, just about blinding the group. Steve grabbed Natasha and Treasa around their waists and jumped, turning in mid air so the shield on his back hit the side of the pillar when he leapt out of the way. _God_ , he groaned, just laying there for a second. That hadn’t been the brightest idea; the hit vibrated all the way down to his _toes_.

Natasha rolled to her feet as rubber burned and tires squealed.

Treasa circled the soldier, her head low, facing outward, and snarled.

And Steve... Steve stood up. “Finally,” His teeth were bared in what could have been a smile. “Someone to _punch_.” He placed all the bags on the ground, unzipped the circular one, and hefted his shield up onto his arm. Vibranium _sung_ , proud to be in the air again and slammed through the windshield, killing the driver instantly. The captain followed it, playing leap frog over the hood of the car—hands braced against the black paint even as the steel caved in just slightly—and swung his legs forward to kick the man in the passenger seat with both of his heels.

Something snapped—cartilage, bone, the soldier didn’t care. He grabbed the muzzle of the gun that poked through from the back and ripped the gun—unfamiliar, but the captain was sure he could figure it out—from the man’s hands. “Leave,” Steve snarled, dropping the gun. “Me,” he reached out, gasping both of the back passengers by the collars of their shirts and pulled them close enough that he could see their eyes widening behind their tinted glasses. “Alone!” Slamming their heads together, the soldier watched as they slumped, unconscious, into their seats.

Ripping his shield out from where it was lodged, Steve climbed back down the car, ignoring the broken glass. Natasha, who had both gun in her hands, looked him over, her eyes narrowed. “Did you get it all out of your system?”

Steve took a few deep breaths and lowered the shield. “Yes, fine, alright,” the soldier looked back at the SUV once his heart had stopped pounding and his hands weren’t clenched into fists. “That was a bit much.”

“Just a bit.”

“We should—” He was going to say take cover. Hide. Get away, because there were sirens in the distance. He was _going_ to say it—and then pain blossomed in his shoulder. It spread like a wild fire, eating at him, burning in his veins.

It was like watching a movie in slow motion—how the super soldier’s body folded in on itself, blood spreading across his shirt front, blue eyes wide in shock before his two hundred pound form hit the floor, Treasa scrambling to get out of the way so she wasn’t crushed. Natasha dove back behind a pillar, guns up to her chest as her heart rate burst. The shield had clattered against the concrete, echoing through the garage.

Steve gasped, his hands scrambling against the floor, trying to push himself up. The spy glanced around the pillar and saw _him_ coming. Silver arm glinting under the orange light, looking as though it was on fire. He held a rifle, black mask covering the lower half of his face, goggle-like glasses over his eyes.

He walked as if he had nowhere else to be.

He walked as if he owned the stage.

Natasha felt an old wound burn on her hip and then turned around the pillar and shot—one, two, _three_. The Winter Soldier—because she knew his name. Everyone like her knew who _he_ was—dove for cover, lifting up the rifle in his flesh arm—

And was immediately defending himself against gleaming, white canines. Treasa, who had hidden herself in the shadows, snapped her teeth, lips pulled back, ears flat against her head. She looked wild with her brown eyes gleaming gold in the jack-o-lantern glow from above, her fur looking more black as if it was swallowing the light around it.

Her bite sliced through skin, claws digging into armour, bones cracking under her fangs while she snarled and growled.

The Winter Soldier howled like a beast and dropped the rifle, his wrist useless—torn open, broken, and bleeding. Treasa sprung off him when he hit the ground—forced down under her sudden weight—slinking back like her great, great ancestors, bloodied teeth gleaming against her pink gums.

He reached for the rifle with his metal arm and she barked, lunging forward again and grabbing him by the ankle, wrenching him away. Fabric was torn, blood spilled across the ground, and Natasha approached slowly, kicked the rifle away, under a nearby car, with the toe of her shoe.

A shot rang out and the redhead ducked instinctually, looking up to see two more men approaching. She scrambled behind a car, reloading both her guns before laying across the ground, aiming at knees from under the vehicle

Treasa yelped as the sole of a boot got her in the shoulder and she scrambled away, claws scratching against pavement. She turned in a half circle, regained her footing, and lunged forward ready to rip one of his feet completely off as Natasha shot out both men at the knees and heard their screams when they fell, clutching ruined legs.

The spy turned to where the shepherd had cornered the assassin, saw the glint of metal, the flash of a knife—

_“No!”_ Vibranium screamed a battle cry, hitting the knife away, both it and the shield screeching across the ground before they came to a stop. Natasha looked back and saw Steve on his knees, bloodied arm outstretched, his eyes wide and glazed, before crumbling in on himself again, clutching his wounded shoulder. Treasa faltered, not expecting the disk and the Winter Soldier knocked her away with his metal arm and scrambled up to his feet.

“Freeze!” Natasha ordered, lifting both guns up again, and fired. Lead deflected across his metal arm and he ripped the pistol from its holster and shot three bullets at her. She dove, covering Treasa with her body and looked up—

The Winter Soldier was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was supposed to be published a while ago. Sorry for the wait!


	3. Chapter 3

“You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.” 

_1Q84_

 Haruki Murakami

* * *

 

Blood fell down to the parking garage floor, looking grotesque under the orange lighting. The sound of each drip echoed against the cold, grey walls, only broken when Steve gasped, palm pressed against his shoulder. His eyes were closed tightly as each shuddering breath made his body quake.

Natasha holstered her gun while Treasa whined, the dog stumbling back on her feet, shaking her head after the particularly nasty blow to her side. The canine didn’t look as if she was having too much trouble standing, but the redhead kept an eye on her, just in case. She kicked the two groaning men on the ground in the head with her heel so they were unconscious (or dead, but who cared?).  It was Steve that the spy quickly focused on, though. There was blood smeared across the ground and covering the left side of his shirt—enough so that, for a second, she wondered if the bullet had hit something more dangerous, more leather, than just muscle and bone.

The soldier opened his eyes, pupils pinpricks, irises glazed over by a white fog, unable to focus, and she realized what was happening.

_Shock_. He was bleeding out because of _shock_.

“Shit—” Natasha ran to him, grace lost as she reached for his hand, to pull it back and just _look_ because, Jesus, even if he had lost just half a pint in the initial shot (and dear God it look far more than _that_ , his shirt was soaked and _dripping_ ) he could bleed out, super soldier or not. She managed to pull a few of his fingers back when the sound of a gun cocking was like thunder, echoing and vibrating through her body and soul. It deafened everything else.

The cold touch of a barrel brushing against her stomach made the redhead freeze. Only Natasha’s eyes moved as she looked up at Steve.

His glazed eyes were narrowed, lips pulled back in a wolfish snarl, revealing white teeth that shone eerily in the light. The gun pressed harder into her stomach and Natasha stood, as slowly as possible, keeping her hands out so he could see them. Once she had taken five steps back, soldier tried to get up to his feet, stumbling, body almost bent in half.

He looked like a puppet trying to stand even after its strings had been cut, head flopping to the side, one knee bent and the other straight, but his eyes never left Natasha—and the gun never faltered. It was as if someone had reached into a television screen and pulled out one of the zombies from _The Walking Dead_ —except his eyes were focused (just barely) and his skin wasn’t decaying.

“Steve,” she tried softly, because that look in his eyes—it was inhuman, it was cold and dark. This was the Steve of the war, this was the one who would storm bases, who rescued prisoners, who took down Schmidt at the cost of his best friend. “Steve, you’re in America,” the redhead tried—because that gun switched from her abdomen to her chest to her _forehead_ with every second.

Treasa, now having gained her footing, gently bit her owner’s pant leg and tugged on the clothing. She was gentle, wagging her tail when he looked down at her. The soldier took a step back, stumbled, and hit the wall with a grunt. There was a long trail of red as he slid down, shining and bright against the wall when he hit the floor.

The hand holding the gun started to shake as the sudden burst of steadiness from just a moment ago fled, the blood loss and shock catching up to Steve at last as the adrenaline oozed from his body like the blood in his shoulder. Treasa stepped around him, licking his hand and snuffling before she glanced back at the redhead and whined. The sound was sharp and soft all at once, the canine looking just as lost as the spy.

Look at them, both completely out of their depth.

Natasha approached anyway, going slow, placing her second gun down on the ground so she was unarmed. She got low, unthreatening and still holding her hands out so he could watch each of her movements until she was kneeling a foot away from him. “You’re scared,” the redhead said, not looking at the firearm but meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “I know you’re scared, Steve.”

Whining like an animal, the young man braced his feet against the smooth floor of the parking garage, shoes skidding across the concrete as he kept trying to push himself further back into the wall (not trying to flee from her, but from something else, something she couldn’t see or feel), spreading even more blood across the grey concrete with each desperate movement. The gun shook in his hand, finger trembling on the trigger and, if he chose to go that route, Natasha wasn’t sure she would be able to move in time—she was too close.

“I don’t—don’t—” the blonde started, choking and gasping as each shudder shook the words out of him. Treasa yipped at his side, pressing her forehead against his arm. Claws clicked with each step, sounding like a small pattering of rain on the roof of a car. “N-no—” The gun steadied for one, split second and every muscle in the redhead tensed up like a rubber band ready to snap—

A book slammed into metal, knocking steel out from under a trembling grip without—miraculously—setting off the gun. _Band of Brothers_ was written in crisp white block letters across the top and the spy was struck by how horribly _ironic_ that was. Natasha was gently guided out of the way by two large hands and she watched a man take her place, kneeling where she had been, palms open, dark eyes wide and honest and _gentle_.

“Hey man,” this new person said, his shoulders relaxed, his voice a soothing tambour. The dark green shirt he was wearing stood out against his dark, russet skin. “You’ve got a nice dog, there. What’s her name?”

Steve stared. Natasha stared.

Somewhere outside a car horn honked and the sirens got closer.

The man waited, relaxed and patient.

“T-Treasa.”

The bohemian shepherd barked when she heard her name, tail wagging and thumping against the wall. Her cold, black nose brushed against Steve’s cheek and, almost automatically, his arm went up to circle loosely around her neck even though his eyes never left the stranger.

“That’s a nice name, did you pick it?”

Natasha watched as Steve shook his head, blinking his glassy eyes slowly, not really registering anything but he had stopped trying to become one with the wall behind him. Blood was still oozing down his front, though. It had gotten slower, though—which was either a good or bad sign.

“What’s _your_ name?” The man tried when the captain didn’t answer, staying where he was and shifting just slightly so he could sit down.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, watching him—but not with complete suspicion. “What’s yours?” His voice was steadier now with something to focus on.

Surprisingly, the stranger laughed. “Sam Wilson,” the grin was bright and blinding—as if someone had taken happiness and put it in this guy’s body for it to hold. He turned to Natasha then, eyes suddenly hardening with his seriousness. “There’s a first aid kit through that door over there,” he didn’t point, but nodded at the entrance to the office building where he must have come from.

The redhead nodded and quickly got to her feet, sprinting down the hall and hearing “Steve” come out of the captain’s mouth when he was gently prodded for his name again. The door cut off the sounds in the parking garage and Natasha was suddenly in a place with walls painted a calming cream, the lower half covered in cherry wood. She reached for the large red case and stared at the poster beside it.

It was a fist punching the sky, dressed in red, white, and blue, with the words ‘Freedom isn’t free, thanking a veteran is’ written out in swooping cursive below it.

Out of all the places for Steve to suffer PTSD he chose the parking garage of the Veterans assistance.

Natasha didn’t know whether to laugh until she was crying or to bang her head against the wall so she decided to do neither and pushed through the door to where Sam Wilson had coaxed Steve to drop his hand. The shirt that the captain had been wearing was pulled to the side, the wound oozing, and the stranger had gloves on his hands; pressing them gently against the injury, still speaking softly to the blonde in that soothing, deep tone of his.

Opening the case, Natasha pulled out her own pair of gloves before snatching three packages of gauze and ripping the packaging. Wilson moved out of her way as she pressed them against Steve’s wound. The soldier wrenched at the sudden force and she hummed softly—a Russian lullaby—and he relaxed, slowly, under her fingers.

Having shed his own blood soaked gloves, Wilson handed her a rolled up bandage and she ripped the shoulder of Steve’s shirt before taking it, wrapping it quickly around the injury, tightening it and making him raise his arm each time she had to go around to his back.

The sound of a number being dialled, though, made Natasha freeze. “No!” She told Wilson as he was getting ready to punch in that last one.

“He’s bleeding out!”

“And an entire government agency is trying to kill him,” She snapped back—more from panic than anything else because if there’s one thing that Natasha hated being it was wrong. And Steve Rogers, in this case, was most _definitely_ in the right. “If you dial the police they’ll know exactly where he is.”

And the sirens were still getting closer. “Sounds like they already know,” Wilson said and Natasha cursed, tying off the bandage.

“Can you stand, Steve?” She murmured and he blinked slowly at her. Sighing, the redhead grabbed his hand and tried to pull him up onto his feet. Treasa barked a few times and pulled on his pants, but the two hundred pound of muscle wasn’t moving—oh.

Sam Wilson ducked under one arm and pushed up, hoisting the captain to his feet. “My car,” he said, nodding to the small black thing that they had miraculously missed during the fight. “We can take him to my place.”

Natasha almost opened her mouth to disagree when Steve groaned. She picked up the first aid kit (after taking off her gloves, gathering up the pair that Wilson had taken off, and put them in a hazardous waste bag to incinerate later) and took the super soldier’s other arm. They got him settled in one of the back seats and threw a blanket over him before Treasa jumped in, settling down by his feet.

Before the redhead got into the car, however, she fetched the shield still lying on the ground. Sam Wilson turned and stared, eyes widening at the sight. Natasha held it closer, protectively, narrowing her eyes as if daring him to comment.

“Well,” he said instead. “That explains some things,” and he leaned over and popped the trunk.

Natasha grabbed the duffle and messenger bags on the way and placed them inside it, leaving the shield on top before slamming down the trunk and climbing into the back seat. She sat beside Steve, taking over the middle section and guided his head against her shoulder. The car rumbled to life underneath her feet as Wilson drove them out of the parking garage and onto the street, leaving the bloodied chaos behind.

* * *

It wasn’t until later in the day that Nick Fury got back into his helicopter and left, so Tony Stark was living off six cups of caffeine, fourteen granola bars, and zero sleep. Bruce Banner, on the other hand, had taken a four hour nap, a shower, and even changed clothing.

That was how Pepper Potts found them; one needing an intervention, and the other deserving a kiss on the cheek (in which Tony whined and grovelled until she shooed him off to take a shower before she went anywhere near him).

Fifteen minutes later, the billionaire came back with wet hair and a new t-shirt, sat down where he had been, and continued to press and flick at the holographic screen. Files popped up and vanished, the SHIELD logo flickering in the corner.

It would be called hacking, if Nick Fury hadn’t told him to do it (he didn’t get it in writing, though, which was a shame). Bruce was there to read through the little things—he had the best eye for detail next to Clint... and Natasha.

Speaking of Natasha. “Hey, Itsy Bitsy Spider,” Tony called over his shoulder—when there was no reply he turned and looked, only seeing the Starkpad sitting at the table and the chair she had been sitting in shoved out and to the side as if she had gotten up in a rush. “Romanoff?” The billionaire frowned and Bruce looked up from his own Starkpad sitting in his lap.

“She wasn’t here when I came back,” he said. That had been three hours ago.

Tony frowned and got to his feet. “Where’d she go?” He pulled a phone from his pocket, dialling and holding it out in front of him.

It went to voicemail.

Sighing, he pressed the contact number for the other assassin/spy/sniper/what-ever-they-were. Clint picked up on the third ring, with a grumpy, _“What?”_

“Where’s your better half?” Tony placed the phone on the nearest table, going back to flipping through files on the screens in front of him. They slowly gathered, surrounding him on all sides in blue, gold, and red. 

_“I don’t know, I’m not her keeper,”_ the archer grumbled—sleepily or pissed off no one was really sure. _“Did you try her phone?”_

“Yes.”

There was a moment of cursing and the sound of something toppling over—clothes? Suitcases? Something valuable that Tony didn’t even want to know about? _“Which phone?”_

Tony just about broke his ankle spinning around to look at the table and Bruce reached out automatically to steady him—and missed, of course, but since the billionaire didn’t fall and crack his head on anything the scientist figured that everything was okay. “The one she gave us.”

_“Huh,”_ Clint muttered uncaringly, distracted.

“What’s her other number?” The billionaire tried and was cut off by the laughter that echoed through the lounge area.

_“Oh, God,”_ The almost cruel snickers floated out of the speakers. _“Oh, she would kill me.”_

Frowning, Tony waved away a few more SHIELD files. “Yeah? Well, she’s missing as of—” He looked over at Bruce and the scientist held up six fingers. “Six hours ago.”

_“Maybe she’s sleeping. She does have to sleep.”_

“Really?” Drawling, the inventor rolled his eyes and got smacked on the shoulder by Pepper as she walked past, heading towards the elevator. “I just figured that tiredness would, you know, avoid her like she was the living embodiment of death and the plague.”

Still the archer snickered. _“I can’t give you her number.”_

“My house, my rules.”

Clint hummed. Something crashed. It sounded suspiciously like either a computer or a television.

“I will tell Jarvis not to order you pizza for an entire year.” Neither Tony nor Bruce had _ever_ heard someone talk so fast and then hang up—but they had gotten the number and it glowed white in front of their eyes. “Bet it’s one of those prepaid phones,” the billionaire muttered. “So she can just _toss_ it.” But he dialled and waited.

It rang once, twice—and then there was the familiar clicking sound of someone pressing the ignore button. Tony sputtered, insulted, his face turning a sharp shade of pink before his phone rang, the number he just dialled blinking up at him.

The billionaire’s thumb almost broke the screen pressing the answer and Natasha’s face was suddenly in front of them. Her bright blue-green eyes were narrowed, lips pinched, and black leather was behind her torn t-shirt. Streetlights appeared and vanished in the window behind her, the pink glow of a sunset lighting dimming gently.

_“What,”_ she half hissed, half whispered.

“Did you know,” the billionaire started, not really knowing what else to say—God, she looked as if she’d just been through a war zone. “That you and Katniss answer the phone in the same way?”

The redhead scowled at him and looked as if she was about to hang up.

“Okay!” Tony held his hands out. “Okay, we can’t find Rogers, there’s quite a lot of moles in SHIELD, and I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.” He said in all one breath and Bruce blinked before leaning over, blocking the inventor.

“Fury left about two hours ago,” the scientist said softly, eyes flickering, examining her face—the darkening bags underneath it, the tangles in her hair. “What happened? Where are you?”

For a second, Natasha stared at the two of them, then she looked over her phone to the driver—because someone had to be driving—and then to her right. _“I’m in Washington,”_ she muttered. _“And, no, not the state,”_ her eyes narrowed on Tony when he opened his mouth. _“I left early this morning and no, I didn’t tell any of you.”_

“Why?” Tony whined. “Romanoff—”

She turned her phone and the billionaire’s words died in his throat.

There, with his head leaning against her shoulder, blue eyes gently closed, blonde hair falling softly over his forehead, was Steve Rogers. There was blood smeared across his cheek, shirt torn away so that the two men could see the white bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder. He was curled into the spy, pink lips parted slightly, each breath slow—or slower than they should have been—skin white and clammy.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered as Bruce cursed in a language none of them understood. “What happened?”

_“He was shot,”_ Gently, so as to not wake him, Natasha shifted the captain’s head so his cheek was against her shoulder. He murmured slightly and shuffled before stilling, the long eyelashes fluttering for a second and everyone held their breath before he drifted off once more. _“In the shoulder by the same assassin who came after him in Brooklyn.”_

Leaning forward, Bruce looked over the wound—from what he could see. “He lost more than a pint of blood, but the serum should have that covered in a few hours.” The scientist paused for a second. “Where’s Treasa?”

The video blurred as the phone moved, but they were looking at the bohemian shepherd curled up at Steve’s feet, her head resting on his lap.

“Hey girl,” Bruce grinned and she opened her eyes, ears perking up. There was something dark drying along her muzzle and only when she opened her mouth, tongue lolling out, to show off her red-stained teeth did they realize it was blood.

_“None of it’s hers,”_ Natasha said. _“She was a very good girl,”_ they watched a pale hand come down and scratch at the pointed ears. Treasa’s tail thumped against the floor of the car. _“Get Clint up there with you,”_ the spy said once the phone was pointing back at her face. _“Tell him that I said to give you all the information he has on the Winter Soldier.”_

“The Winter Soldier,” Tony was already typing. “Got it, anything you need from us?”

Her eyes turned to the man leaning against her before going back to the two men. _“Just be ready to come to Washington. And find the leak in SHIELD— **quickly**.”_ Natasha hung up on them without saying anything else, her attention turning from them to the driver in the last split second they had seen her, her face lit up by an overhead street light.

For a moment, Stark Tower seemed to be still—and then Tony burst into movement. “Jarvis, pull up project Eagle and tell Barton to get his butt up here, Widow’s orders.” The billionaire looked over Bruce, his eyes cold, serious. “Can you keep going through the files?”

The scientist nodded and turned to his screen. “Jarvis?”

_“Yes, sir?”_ The AI answered as Tony raced to the Elevator, pressing the button that would take him to his workshop.

“Can you do a search on all recent SHIELD projects?”

There was no vocal answer, but files started to appear in front of Bruce, each one labelled with a name and a date, starting from a year ago. More and more popped up—the Avengers Initiative being one, but the latest—

Clint Barton came through the elevator doors wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. He jumped over the couch, landing in a squat besides Bruce. “What’s up?”

“Who’s the Winter Soldier?”

The archer’s face fluttered between various different emotions—anger, hatred, surprise—before finally settling on cool indifference. “He’s an assassin, no one knows his real identity or who he works for, but he has been credited with over a hundred assassinations over the last fifty years.”

Bruce turned to stare at the other man. “Fifty years?”

The grey-blue eyes were sharp, glinting like the bird Clint had gotten his codename from. They flashed, turning towards the screen. “What are you looking for?”

“Right now?” The scientist scratched the back of his neck, “Anything new that SHIELD has started over the past three years.”

“That’s too broad,” Clint leaned forward. “SHIELD starts new projects every day. You should be searching for high ranking agents who were suddenly pulled from the middle of projects and placed on new ones.”

The files stopped loading as JARVIS processed the request. Many of them vanished, pictures flying across the screen just as Tony came through the elevator doors, a broad grin on his face that didn’t falter even when he looked over to see what they were doing.

There were over fifty results.

Clint tapped his finger against his mouth. “Narrow it down to agents who are high ranking.”

Fifty turned to twenty and both Bruce and Tony leaned forward.

“Agents who _didn’t_ get their last orders from Nick Fury.”

Tony reached out for the images, small lines of gold spinning from his fingers before he flung his hands out. Ten pictures surrounded them. Men and women—there was one, a blonde woman who stared down at them with cold, blue eyes. Her lips were curled into a half smile.

Agent 13.

“Not her,” Clint waved his hand and the picture collapsed.

“What? Why not?”

The archer levelled a cold look on Tony. “Do _you_ want to be the one to explain to Peggy Carter why her niece was taken in to questioning?”

Even at ninety-five the ex-agent and co-founder of SHIELD was terrifying.

Tony Stark shut his mouth.

Maria Hill was dismissed when it said her last orders came from the Council, along with a few others that either said a higher ranking agent or, in Nick Fury’s case, it said no one (that was some interns idea of a joke and Clint snickered just a bit).

Agent Sitwell, Rumlow, and a few others were left.

“Show last orders,” Bruce said and the names appeared in red.

Alexander Pierce, Alexander Pierce, _Alexander Pierce_.

Project Insight.

“Shit,” Clint took a step back—an actual step back, the archer who hadn’t flinched in the face of an alien invasion looked pale and drawn, his eyes wide as he _took a step back_. “Shit, shit, _shit—_ ”

_That_ , Tony thought to himself. _Was putting it lightly._

* * *

 

Natasha had to wake Steve up when they arrived at Sam Wilson’s house (it was a nice, tidy, quaint place with a manicured lawn that had a few missed spots and some budding rose bushes by the driveway. Nothing too out of the ordinary). She tapped his cheeks and he groaned, swatting at her hands and mumbling.

“Come on, Steve,” the spy murmured as Wilson opened the door and Treasa jumped out onto the grass, sniffing at anything and everything, the past hour seemingly forgotten as she rolled about, enjoying the evening air.

Blue eyes fluttered open. “N’tasha?”

“That’s it,” The redhead smiled—just a small quirk of her lips. “There you go—” He groaned, shuffling and shaking his head before turning his body to get out of the car. Wilson grabbed one of his hands, helping him stand with a grunt as Natasha slid out after him.

The trunk was already popped open, so she fished out the bags and shield as Wilson hoisted one arm over his shoulder. Steve was more aware, holding most of his own weight, but the blood loss had his feet stumbling, tripping over each other until he was, gently, using the other man as a crutch. Treasa bounded after him, racing up and down the driveway, sniffing at the roses, tail wagging with each step. She tore towards Natasha, skidded to a stop, and ran back to the porch steps as if telling them to _hurry up_.

“You guys can have the guest room,” Wilson said, leading them through a fully stocked kitchen and down a hallway. “I’ll go get my first aid kit from the hallway—we gotta get the bullet out and stitch up the wound before he starts bleeding again.”

Natasha set the bags and shield down on the bed as Steve was guided into a wooden chair sitting in front of a pastel blue wall. He reached with one hand for Treasa and rubbed between her eyes and over her brow. Wilson fetched some scissors from the kitchen (as well as the fire red kit) and started to cut away the other man’s blood stained clothes, letting them fall to the ground where the redhead gathered them up and put them in the same waste bag she had placed the gloves.

“You need to get it out,” Steve’s voice was soft and devoid of emotion, his eyes on the dog sitting between his legs. It was a matter of fact voice—the voice of someone who had gone through this many, many times.

Wilson laid a towel out on the floor. “Yeah, sorry man.”

Grunting, the soldier allowed them to help him to the floor until his back was pressed to the towel.

“I’m going to have to be quick,” the stranger said—though Natasha wondered if he could be considered a stranger anymore; what with treating an injured WWII Veteran on his guest room floor. “It won’t be painless.”

Steve chuckled a bit at that and tangled his hand in Treasa’s fur, resting his head back on the carpet before closing his eyes. “Been through worse.” His dog settled against his side, tucking her nose against his neck, ribs pressed against his.

Wilson snapped on some gloves and looked over at Natasha. She had picked up the scissor and was holding up a small portion of the bandages. “Do it.”

Blades  snapped together and the fabric fell away. The gauze stuck to drying blood as it was peeled away and the wound was revealed, oozing and red. Grabbing a set of tweezers, Wilson rested one hand against Steve’s chest, over his heart, and used his weight to keep the super soldier down. Natasha grabbed the free hand and put it in a hold, nodding her head to show she was ready.

Metal plunged into flesh and Steve howled before the sound was suddenly cut off, his eyes and teeth clenched together, back of his head hitting the floor with a dull _thud_. His body jerked, but, somehow, he managed to stay still enough for Wilson to dig deeper, searching for the bullet.

Treasa whined deep in the back of her throat and licked her owner’s cheek. The hand buried in her fur didn’t close against her, palm laying flat against her back before sliding to the floor to grip the carpet. Natasha was almost slammed against the bedpost, but the movement stopped as suddenly as it began.

“Almost there, almost there,” Wilson muttered, his face dark with concentration. “Got it!”

The bullet was pulled out and dropped onto the gauze with the tweezers. Snatching up the needle, Wilson leaned over, closed the wound with the tips of his fingers, and sewed together flesh with the practice of someone who’s had to do it multiple times before. The black thread stood out against the white skin, looking macabre and jagged compared to the smoothness of the soldier’s body.

It was over in minutes; blood spread across Steve’s pale chest from the bleeding and Natasha helped the other man wrap up the wound while the super soldier got his breath back. Wilson pulled the gloves off his hands and gathered up all the supplies. “I’ll go order a pizza,” he glanced at the man on his floor. “Or, well, maybe three.”

Then, he was gone and Natasha was helping Steve to sit up, one hand in his and the other braced against his back. Treasa pawed at the soldier’s leg and sat down next to him, sniffing at his ear and neck until he wrapped one arm around her and rubbed the canine’s fur until she was satisfied that he was alright.

“I’ll be right back,” the spy murmured and got to her feet, fishing out a washcloth from the bathroom and getting it soaked. She kept an eye on the man through the mirror, watching as he brushed his fingers over the bandages. By the time Natasha had wrung out the washcloth and returned with it, Steve was leaning forward, forehead halfway to his knees in his effort not to lean up against anything for fear of smearing red across it. Sitting down behind him, the redhead carefully brushed the rag over his skin, cleaning off the sweat and blood.

“Something’s bothering you,” he murmured after a few minutes of silence.

Natasha’s eyes flickered up to stare at the back of his head before going down, focusing on his spine. “It can wait.”

The captain grunted in disagreement and turned to face her. Each movement was slow and careful—the shoulder probably aching horribly. His face was gentle and sweet, all curves softened, eyes bright and searching her face.

Steve Rogers, Natasha came to the conclusion, looked like a golden retriever puppy. All he was missing was the floppy ears and the tail because those eyes were the same type she’s seen on canines working in hospitals who only want everyone else to feel better.

“It’s fine,” she said, and started to wipe down his chest until the soldier gently took her wrist in hand, stopping her palm over his heart. She could feel it, pounding between that thin layer of cloth and bone and muscle.

“It’s not,” Steve urged.

Natasha stared at him for a long moment—they could hear Sam Wilson puttering about in his kitchen, talking to someone (the list of ingredients made them relax cause, just like he said, the man was ordering a couple of pizzas). “Do you trust me?” The redhead asked, words falling from her lips without her consent—but there was no stopping them now.

Bright eyes blinked and turned away, Steve biting him lip, brow furrowed in thought. She could see him working the question over in his mind, giving it honest thought she hadn’t really expected from anyone—but this was _Steve_ and Steve always seemed to shrug away expectations.

“I think,” his voice stumbled a bit and she realized, with a jerk, that it was his accent slipping through—that bit of New York, that bit of Irish. “I think if you had asked me that three hours ago,” Steve looked up and met her eyes. “I would have said no.”

“And... now?”

There was a gentle, sweet smile on his face. “Yes,” he answered and she saw it in his eyes; that brutal honesty.

Suddenly, even with the Winter Soldier out there, even with the secrets of SHIELD, the possibility of a mole, the rising betrayal on the horizon, Natasha felt at ease because sitting in front of her was a man who not only believed in humanity, but also believed in her.

And it was a rare, rare thing, to find someone who would trust a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Sam Wilson! Everyone should have a Sam Wilson.  
> The reason why this is so late is because I was making a tumblr. [A writing tumblr](http://experimental-bulletproof-alloy.tumblr.com/). Where people can contact me because I'm not on here a lot. It's still under construction (as of 6/21) so some of the links might not work, but people can drop prompts there if they want or just bully me to update, either works.   
> Two more chapters to go, guys!  
> Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

“It's the friends you can call up at 4 a.m. that matter.”   
Marlene Dietrich

 

* * *

 

Three pizzas arrived, steam rising from the boxes, smelling up the entire house. Steve ate a slice with one hand, using the box of his large one as a plate. Cheese oozed, dripping down and he used his fingers, not bothering with utensils. Treasa was curled up under his chair, muzzle resting on her forelegs, two bowls filled with  water and food sitting beside her. The blood around her mouth had been wiped away by a washrag and, now, her chest rose and fell with each breath.

The smell of grease and tomato sauce was so strong that Natasha felt that she was back at the Tower and Stark had ordered over a dozen pizzas to feed the team. The melted cheese, garlic dipped crust, meat, vegetables, and fruit filled the kitchen and the spy fought the urge to go open up one of the windows, just to get some air flowing. She kept one eye on Steve—who had an entire Hawaiian pizza to himself. He was picking off pieces of pineapple and popping them into his mouth bit by bit before eating each of the slices. They might as well have ordered a ham pizza and given him a bowl of pineapple by the way he was eating it.

Sam Wilson watched both the spy and the soldier from behind his all meat pizza as the silence grew heavy on their shoulders. It seemed like the only one _not_ to notice the awkward quietness weighing heavily in the kitchen was Steve. The man just kept eating, finishing three slices in the time it took Natasha to finish one.

“So,” Sam said after a few minutes, finishing off his fifth slice before pushing the box closer to Steve (who had just finished his and looked like he was ready to eat the table). “Any particular reason as to why these guys are hunting you down?”

Natasha eyed him over her veggie delight and slurped up some cheese, chewing slowly as she thought over her response. “They’re not after _us_ ,” she took another bite (this time, _just_ to be irritating and give her some more time to think over just how much she could tell this guy), green peppers crunching under her teeth before she swallowed, nodding at the soldier that had accidently spilled bacon bits across the table. “They want _him_.”

Glancing up, Steve looked between the two of them and took another bite of pizza. The white bandages stood out against his lightly tanned pallor, the dusting of freckles across his shoulders standing out now as his skin was pale and clammy from blood loss. His blue eyes were  shining and bright—though not in the good kind. Both Sam and Natasha were keeping a close eye on him, though the dizziness and distracted look on his face came mostly from blood loss. Not infection, thankfully.

Hence the three pizzas.

“But why _him_? And how is he alive, anyway? Didn’t he go down in 1945?” Sam paused and winced. “Oh, sorry man.”

The soldier waved his hand lazily. “I’m still wondering about that, too,” he stated and finished the rest of the slice. The clock behind him changed to midnight and Steve polished off what was left of Sam’s pizza and turned to Natasha. There was that puppy look again; the wide, earnest eyes with his gently curved features.

“Just take it,” She muttered, grabbing one last slice and sliding the rest over to him. “We’re not sure who’s after him—just that they want him dead and are willing to go to extremes to do it.”

Grunting, their host nodded and turned to stare at the soldier packing away even more of the pizza. “Does he normally eat that much?” Sam asked, his eyes on the two pieces that were left while Steve seemed to inhale the spy’s meal.

Natasha just shrugged and snuck one last slice, picking off a few of the mushrooms and popping them into her mouth. The captain looked up at her, eyes narrowed as if making sure she wasn’t going to steal another one, before he dug in. The green peppers crunched between his teeth, cheese and sauce sucked up into the (seemingly) bottomless pit.

It was, well, it was actually fairly disturbing how many pounds of food the soldier was putting away.

“That’s terrifying,” Sam said and Natasha nodded as Steve licked the sauce off his fingers and finished the last few slices in, what seemed like, the amount of time it took the spy to blink. Silence settled around them again as the soldier laid his head down on the table.

“Thank you,” he managed to mumble out between a yawn and Sam reached over, hesitantly, before patting the other man on his (uninjured) shoulder.

“No problem, man,” he said, grinning fondly—not a strange fond, though. This was like a person watching a puppy tumble and fall on its face. A feeling that Natasha often felt around Steve.  “Why were those guys going after you, anyway? And who were they?”

The redhead levelled a cool stare at the other man, who turned and met her gaze unflinchingly. “We’re not sure,” she admitted. “We know that they’re a part of SHIELD. Or have moles inside of it.”

Sam whistled lowly and glanced back at Steve. “But what do they want with _Captain America?_ And how did you survive, man? Everyone thought that you died in a plane crash.” No one needed to hear the _in 1945_ bit. It was the giant elephant sitting in the corner.

“So did I,” The super soldier muttered and picked his head up, chin resting on his palm. “I was frozen, woke up to the twenty-first century, got shot at.”

“That’s a headline,” Sam said and Steve snorted, turning his head to look at the other man. “How’s your shoulder?”

The super soldier hummed, uncommitted. If there was a possibility of getting high off pizza, Natasha was sure he had just managed it. “Throbs, doesn’t hurt.”

“Uh huh—” but before Sam could disagree with the man’s claim, a cell phone rang. Natasha stared at it for a long moment before realizing that it was hers. She checked the number first before sliding her thumb across and setting it down in the middle of the table.

“You’re on speaker, Stark.”

There was a few clunks on the other end. _“Hey Steve! How’re you doing?”_

The soldier groaned, loud and long, before burrowing his face back into his arms.

Tony Stark only laughed. _“Do you two want the good news or the bad news?”_

“How about sleep?” Steve grumbled. “Can I have sleep?”

_“Not yet, princess,”_ the billionaire stated before his tone grew serious. _“I’m sending you guys a file, it has most of the information we dug out of SHIELD.”_

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Most?”

_“Yeah, most, because a lot of it needs to be said in person.”_ There was a strange banging noise in the background, but it faded. _“Romanoff... it’s Pierce. Alexander Pierce. We’re not sure how deep—”_

The redhead didn’t react—not like normal people would, at least. Her back stiffened, eyes narrowing. “Have you told Fury?”

_“What makes you think I’m not in this conversation?”_ The director said, voice coming through the speaker—sounding well and truly above being _pissed off_. _“Where are you and Rogers currently?”_

“Safe,” Her eyes rose up from the phone to glance between Sam and Steve. “At least for a while.”

Sam gave her a thumbs up before pushing his chair back, heading for the fridge and grabbing a carton of orange juice. He filled up a glass for Steve and pushed it into the soldier’s hand until he got the hint (grumbling and sipping slowly at the bright beverage).

_“Good,”_ Tony continued with that same, serious tone. It sounded out of place on the inventor; the man who was normally sporting a joke in times like this. _“What we’re looking at is something called Project Insight. According to Fury; it’s the next big step in planetary defence that the World’s Security Council managed to work up. Luckily for us, none of the helicarriers that are part of the project have even been started.”_

“And the bad news?” Natasha picked at a nail, her eyes half lidded and glinting in the dull light of the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, the billionaire exhaled noisily. _“The bad news is that there are a lot more people involved in this than just a few ‘moles’.”_ So Tony told them; told them about the numerous dirty agents, of the orders coming from high up, of the side projects and the secrecy. A million dollars missing from the budget and ships launched for who knows what purpose. _“And we’re not done going through the files, yet,”_ the billionaire continued. _“There’s probably a lot more than this.”_

“When was the last time you slept, Stark?” Natasha glanced over at Steve; the super soldier’s head was dipping lower and lower, his eyes shut and then jerking open as he reminded himself to stay awake. She didn’t wait for the inventor’s answer, however, “Get some sleep and contact us again in the morning.”

There was something that sounded like a whine on the other end, but the soft tone of Bruce’s voice cut through it. He was too far away from the speaker for anyone to actually make out what he was saying, but it stopped Tony’s whining.

_“Fine, alright? **Fine**.”_ The billionaire grumbled before the dial tone started beeping through the speaker.

Natasha rolled her eyes and snatched her phone off the table. It buzzed after a few seconds, and she responded to the text message, tapping out on the keyboard with her thumbs.

“How can I help?”

The redhead  glanced up at Sam Wilson. Sam Wilson whose face was serious. Sam Wilson who had just _met_ them. “You already are,” Natasha stated, sending off the text.

“How can I do _more_?”

Steve and Natasha both stared at him, turned and glanced at each other before facing this single man who had found them in a shooting at his work and had already brought them home, patched them up, and given them food.

“I don’t know,” the spy said, pushing the half finished orange juice back into the super soldier’s hand. He scowled at her and placed his chin on the table, counting the bubbles along the edges. “What _can_ you do?” _Besides take in strays_. This guy must collect boxes of abandoned kitten on the side of the road and nursed them back up before finding them a good home.

Honestly, who could be that _good?_ Her eyes turned to Steve and she quickly amended that statement. What was the chances of getting two people that were that kind and generous into a room _together_?

A file flopped onto the table and Steve almost spilt the juice as he sat up, staring at the big, black letters printed on the top. Natasha grabbed it before he could, raising an eyebrow mockingly at the pouting captain. “Interesting rap sheet you’ve got here,” she said, flipping through the papers. “Para-rescue, what did you use? Stealthchute ?”

“Nah,” Sam grinned and handed over another file. “These.”

Natasha stared at the images, flipped through them, bit her lip and turned to Steve. He was leaning forward, chin resting on his hands, watching her. “What do you think, Captain?”

“I like him.”

“You like anyone who feeds you three pizzas,” she muttered and ruffled his hair when he stuck his tongue out at her. “Where can we get one of these?” the redhead waved the second folder back at Sam and he shrugged.

“The last set is at Fort Meade.”

Natasha shrugged. “That’ll be easy enough,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing. Steve went to follow her and she pressed her hands against his forehead, shoving him back into the chair. “You. Sleep.”

The captain flopped down, sipping angrily at his orange juice, glaring at her from under his eyebrows as she pulled on her jacket. The moment she left through the door (and Steve had, finally, finished his drink) Sam coaxed the super soldier onto his feet and herded him back to the guest bedroom.

“Shout if you need anything,” he grinned as Steve flopped onto the mattress, curling up into one of the pillows. Sam turned, glancing back at the soldier as he closed the door halfway.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had said anything more, though, because the captain was already asleep.

* * *

Steve woke up and the walls were blue. Not a sky blue, but the same type of calming blue that was on Microsoft Word (just hearing that would’ve probably given Tony Stark an aneurysm). The bed was firm, but not uncomfortable, the sheets were warm, there was something soft curled up against him... and his shoulder ached.

It wasn’t a constant aching, more like that painful throbbing, the one where the muscles and skin felt like they were burning with each beat of his heart. It was more of an annoyance than anything and Steve grunted when he pushed himself up. The noise of coiled bedsprings drew the sound of pattering paws and he grinned when Treasa trotted through the door, tail wagging so hard it hit the wall.

“Who’s a good girl?” Steve cooed, scratching her ears as he looked around the room. Treasa jumped up, knocking him onto his back with an _oomf_ —and on top of one red haired assassin who _had_ been slumbering peacefully.

Natasha jerked awake with a snarl, her hands curled like claws before she jerked to a stop, blinking drowsily at the two sheepish faces looking up at her.

“How’s your shoulder?” She asked instead of commenting on the fact that the two were sprawled across her lap. Her eyes moved over the crisp, white bandages. There was no flecks of red, no sign that he had pulled the stitches in his sleep.

“Fine,” Steve ran his fingers over the bohemian shepherd’s head, tracing the markings on her face with the pad of his thumb.

Natasha levelled a disappointed scowl at him, reaching across the soldier to tug at the bandage. “Are you _sure?_ ”

 “It throbs a bit,” Steve caught her wrist. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall off.”

Humming dispassionately, the redhead eyed him again before slinking off the bed. She, the captain realized, was still wearing her clothes from yesterday; the tanktop and jeans, her hair ruffled up and tangled in the back. There was a shadow of soot on her face and he was abruptly reminded of the night before. The soldier perked up, opened his mouth, then closed it again while Treasa pressed her forehead against his chest.

“It went fine,” Natasha ran her fingers through her hair, not looking at him. “It was embarrassingly easy, actually.”

“Hmmm,” He hummed and laid back on the mattress, guiding Treasa so she could lay her head on his stomach. The soldier’s eyes closed, ready for a nap when something (a shirt, he thought) landed on his face. Sputtering, Steve pulled it off and glared up at Natasha.

She smirked. “Get up, sleeping beauty, it’s time to go.”

“Go?” He grumbled, gently nudging the dog to the side and pulling on the clothes. “Go where?”

“A safe house, get up.”

Treasa, the traitor, was already bounding after the redhead as she walked down the hallway, back to the kitchen. Steve grumbled and shuffled after, patting his cheeks to wake himself up.

A plate filled with pancakes, eggs, and sausage waited for him, but he dug through his bags first to get out Treasa’s food. It crunched between her teeth as he ate, the kitchen filled with the sound of grinding, juice filling up glasses, and happy hums.

“You’re a good cook,” Steve muttered halfway through his pancakes.

“Thanks, man,” Sam smiled at him, teeth bright in the dimness of the early morning.

Natasha had what looked like a bowl of fruit, some yogurt, and sausages. Her spoon tapped against the table as she flipped through a newspaper. At least breakfast wasn’t as awkward at the pizza fiasco the night before, though. And Steve only shovelled half his body weight away in pancakes rather than three times that much into his mouth.

Dishes were cleaned, bags were packed, and then all four of them (that’s including the dog) were bundled up into Sam Wilson’s car for the second time in the past twenty-four hours.

Steve set the passenger seat back down—not far enough so that it was noticeable from the outside, but enough so that he could curl up on his side to talk to Natasha (who was currently seated behind Sam). Treasa had placed her neck through the gap like it was one of those old guillotines, her head resting on the middle arm rest, eyes flickering back and forth. The redhead was running her hand over the dog’s spine, smoothing out the black fur while the pointed ears flicked back and forth.

“—but wouldn’t it be on SHIELD’s radar?” Steve was saying. “I mean, safe houses might not be kept a secret for long when you’re in a spy organization.”

Natasha was humming lightly and tapping her finger against her bottom lip. “If you were not a very good one, than yes. There are safe houses that SHIELD knows about—and for every safe house they know about, Clint and I have two more.”

Nodding, the soldier hummed. “I guess that makes sense. The boys and I had a similar thing; we’d have stocks in multiple cities that Colonel Phillips wouldn’t know about because, well, squirreling away supplies was, uh...”

“A federal offence?”

He shrugged, the movement stunted by the fast that he was laying against the seat, a small grin on his lips. “So is lying on your enlistment form but I did that one, too.” Scratching at the back of his neck, Steve sighed. “There wasn’t a lot to go around on the front lines so the SSR was really lucky to have the supplies that we did. But, sometimes, it wasn’t practical to carry six pounds of food when we needed to invade a HYDRA base. So we left it where we could and eventually went back for it.”

“It _is_ a part of human nature,” Natasha said, leaning forward until her arms were braced upon the back of the driver’s seat. “Take a left at the next light,” she told Sam, eyes on her phone. “Clint hides _everything_.”

“I know,” Steve groaned. “I saw his room.”

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

The soldier just nodded, grimacing; the sniper might be the best at what he did, but his habits were _foul_.

_“—Please be advised that there is a—_ ” A woman spoke over the radio and was quickly cut off when Sam spoke.

“I knew a guy who did the same thing, you know? He’d take what was left of his rations and keep it in his pack. It was smart, too—”

Natasha shushed him quickly, finger on her lips, staring out the windshield. Both Sam and Steve froze, listening.

“ _Again, there is a shootout on 16 th street, drivers are advised to find an alternate route—_”

As one, every person in the car looked up at one of the signs along the street Sam had just pulled on. Natasha sat back in her seat, typing furiously on her phone as the driver cursed. “You want me to find an alternate route?”

“Not yet,” The redhead muttered, “Keep going forward.”

“You’re the boss,” Sam shrugged, but stayed on the road even as others were already pulling off.

The sound of gunshots were getting louder, people were running past on the sidewalk, clearing the area. In the back seat, Natasha frowned and looked up. “There! Parking garage!” She pointed past his face and Sam swerved across three lanes, almost knocking Steve into the door as the wheels on the car screeched. He managed to get into the opening, pulling up past the first row of cars. “Go to the second level and park, we’re going to walk the rest of the way.”

“Walk?” the man said, but did as she told. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Nick Fury is in a shootout with some of our new _friends_. We’re getting him out.”

Steve perked up, looking much too happy at the prospect of being able to punch someone again. The car pulled into the last spot on the second level, and Natasha was already climbing out before anyone could say otherwise, Treasa was following her. After Sam popped the trunk and was turning the car off, the redhead wrestled the red, white, and blue shield out of the back.

Taking it from her, Steve slid his arm through the straps, his other hand brushing almost reverently across the smooth surface. The gun shots grew louder as Natasha attached her pistols to her thighs and Sam shrugged on the metal backpack. The car beeped happily at them when it was locked, and they ran towards the nearest exit.

“Anyone have a plan, or are we just winging it?”

Natasha glanced at Steve. “Don’t you always have a plan?”

“I do,” he grinned and ducked into an alley, following the sound of bullets hitting steel. “I just wanted to know if you had one, first.”

Huffing, she raised an eyebrow at him before they all skidded to a stop at an alley entrance. Steve stuck his head out, eyeing the situation.

“Four cars, a van, and about eighteen individuals, all highly armed. I have a visual on the SUV but it doesn’t look like they’ve gotten in yet.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Sam readjusted the strap across his chest, tightening it just a bit.

The captain turned to the spy and the para-rescuer. “Okay,” He glanced back out at the street. “Sam, I need you up on that roof, take out the guys with the big... I don’t know what it is but it’s trying to take out the window. You’re on Fury; get him out and back to the parking garage. Natasha, you and I are going to come in from both sides—aim for the gas tanks. If we can get one car to explode they’ll panic and shoot wild, maybe hitting each other.” Blue eyes landed on the redhead’s. “We’re going to scatter them up until Sam’s got Fury back at the car, got it?”

“Aye aye, captain,” Natasha grinned, saluting with two fingers as Sam let the wings shoot out and take him to the top of the building they were standing by. Steve took off down the alley, running through the backstreets, Treasa at his heels. He kept the street in his sight, managing to make it on the other side of the shooting before he glanced up and saw Sam looking straight at him.

There was a flash of red—the same, stark crimson of Natasha’s hair—and Steve stepped out onto the street, throwing his shield with his good arm. It screamed through the air, hitting one of the cruisers, bounced off, and slammed into two people, knowing them onto their backs. He followed the vibranium, sprinting down the street with Treasa leading the way, her teeth bared as she jumped over one of the cars and hit a man, slamming him into the ground. The gunfire didn’t stop even as Steve caught his shield and he realized, as men fell, that it was Natasha.

She ducked behind cars, slinking in and out of openings like the spider she was named for, striking them down one by one. A black widow indeed. Steve kicked a man through the windshield of another car and heard bones snap as blood trickled down white paint.

“Take him _down_! TAKE HIM DOWN!” Someone was screaming and Steve ran, grabbed Treasa, and rolled as Natasha’s aim was true.

The black van exploded in bits of metal and glass, slamming up against the shield, hissing, heat licking at the metal and his exposed shoes. Screaming rose up—from both the attackers and the bystanders, but Steve was more focused on the shadow dropping down the side of the building, looking like an angel with grey, metallic wings.

Sam landed on top  of the car, pulled out two guns that were attached to the machine on his back, and fired into the inferno. Steve turned from him, then, flinging his shield at the first man to raise up his gun and followed it with a punch that had bones snapping under his knuckles. Treasa barked and scrambled through his legs, getting the heel of a man who was looking for Natasha.

It was chaos; blood smeared along the asphalt, dead bodies laid out with their blank faces staring at the sky, the car was still burning, crackling and spitting up at the sky as thick, black smoke covered the street. Steve grabbed the nearest gun barrel pulled the holder close, and slammed his fist into the Kevlar covered stomach. Vomit spewed across the ground and the man coughed, holding his abdomen. Barking, Treasa hovered by her owner, baring her sharp, white teeth. The two of them watched the coughing, the screaming—which was suddenly drowned out by the chopping of a helicopter. Steve glanced up, eyeing the NEWS slogan written in white along the side. He looked back at the car and saw the door open, the seats empty, and he ran, ducking back into an alley way, vanishing from sight.

Behind him, there was blood and smoke.

* * *

Treasa sat in the middle of the back seat, laying partially across Natasha’s lap, and stared up at the new man. He stared right back with his singular, dark eye. Steve was fighting the urge to keep glancing back in the side mirror and rolled his shoulder instead, wincing as it twinged.

“If you ripped your stitches—” Sam started, shaking his head as he sped down the street.

“I didn’t,” the captain replied and pulled the shirt down so that everyone could see the still white bandages. “It’s just throbbing again.”

Natasha hummed, using her thumb to scroll through her phone.

Not taking his eyes off the road, Sam frowned. “I’m not sewing your ass back together, okay man? I did it once already and _once_ was _enough_.”

“Stop whining about it, at least I didn’t get blood all over your car,” Steve grumbled, sinking low in his seat until a cold, black nose pressed against his neck. “Treasa!” The canine barked and wagged her tail, hitting both people in the back as she licked his neck and cheek until he—gently—pushed her away. There was silence as he lifted his shirt, wiping the slobber off his skin.

“Are we there yet?” Natasha spoke up and a loud groan came from the two in the front.

Sam glanced back through the mirror, scowling in good nature. “ _Yes_ , but that’s no thanks to you asking every thirty seconds.”

“Just keeping you on your toes,” She smiled in such a fake, charming way that the driver scrunched up his nose and made a face back at her. He pulled up to a suburban house that already had a car in the driveway but, with Fury’s nod, they exited and began to dig out the bags in the trunk. It was late enough that people had already gone off to work, and there was enough of them that it only took one trip to get the bags and supplies into the house.

And there, of course, sat Tony Stark.

He was sitting on a chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. “You took your sweet ass time.”

“Not everyone runs on your time schedule,” Natasha dropped the bag she was carrying. “And you said to get here before noon. Is it before noon?”

Steve hummed and sat down on the nearest sofa, testing the comfort with his hands before Treasa joined him. Bruce came down the stairs, Clint at his heel. The archer lit up at the sight of the dog on the couch and almost bowled the scientist over in his hast to rub her ears and scratch her stomach.

Treasa wagged her tail, tongue lolling from her mouth as she rolled onto her back. Her large, brown eyes looked up at Steve, narrowed, with her face clearly saying _this is the proper way to greet your dog_. The soldier sighed and shook his head before he was, carefully, pushed back against the couch.

“I heard you were shot,” Bruce said.

Humming, Steve closed his eyes and leaned against the soft cushions as Natasha and Fury headed into the kitchen. Sam stayed close, hovering by the living room area while Tony looked him up and down, measuring him, perhaps (or jealous because here was another person taller than the billionaire).

It took about a half hour for everyone to gather on the couches and chairs. Steve had to suffer through Bruce’s poking and prodding. A new set of bandages were pressed against his skin, tightened almost uncomfortably around his shoulder. Natasha and Clint both perched on the back of the sofa he was sitting on; the redhead had her arms cross on his head, chin resting upon them, legs on either side of his shoulders—not touching them, but close enough that he could feel the heat.

“Alright,” Tony said, having been shoved from his seat by a very smug Nick Fury. “Listen up, we’ve got two problems.”

“Is one of them your hair?” Clint drawled, chin resting on his palm, elbow resting on Bruce’s head. “And the midlife crisis you’re going through?”

The billionaire chose to ignore the archer (that was a first). “Project Insight is nowhere near completion—on the helicarrier front. But, recently, there’s notes about a group heading to New Jersey to a specific location. Whether they were picking something up or dropping something off; we don’t know.” Tony’s hands moved around, snapping and clapping, unused to having nothing to touch underneath them. “Alexander Pierce is currently sitting at the top of SHIELD—one of the most secure buildings in Washington. The only place, currently, that has all evidence against him inside it’s secure server.”

“You want to hack into the database, gather all the info, and then what?” Fury leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, arm in a sling so he couldn’t fold his fingers on his lap. The man made for a pretty impressive image anyway. “They’re not going to let you just _walk_ outta there.”

“To be perfectly honest, I was willing to _fly_ too,” Tony rolled his eyes. “It’ll be easy enough to get the information once I get to a computer.”

Bruce rubbed his eyes. “And what are we going to do with it?”

“Why not hand it over to the president or the secretary of defence?”

“And let them ignore it?” Clint shot out. “What if they’re part of this organization too? We either have to go big or go home.”

Fury bristled. “We’re _not_ dumping SHIELD secrets onto the internet.”

“Your cooperation doesn’t exactly _inspire_ me with confidence,” Steve said, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve been attacked twice in twenty-four hours. They’ve been keeping secrets from you.” Treasa whined and he brushed his fingers over her head. “When something can become that corrupt, you have to cut it all away.”

“If we do dump it, we can’t do it from SHIELD.”

Tony waved his hand at Bruce’s comment. “We’ll figure that out when we get to it.”

“Then we’ll need to split up into two teams,” Steve said. “One will go to their... _whatever_ and the other will go to SHIELD.”

“I call Bruce!” The billionaire stuck his hand up into the air as if he was five years old.

The SHIELD agents in the room snorted and laughed. “You won’t get very far with him,” Fury tilted his head to the side.

“Bruce will be needed on the other team, anyway.”

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Clint grinned at Tony, his smile sharp and toothy. “An agent can get you deeper than your nonexistent charm.”

As the billionaire opened his mouth to retort back, Steve quickly cut him off. “Fury, Clint, and Tony will go to SHIELD. The rest of us will head to... where was it?”

“Camp Lehigh?”

All at once it seemed as if the air had been pushed out of Steve’s lungs, his eyes wide. “Oh,” he murmured.

It took them an hour to eat lunch and pack up everything into separate cars, agreeing to contact each other when the missions were successful (or not, but apparently optimism was the way to go). Bruce, Natasha, Steve, and Sam all piled into a car—none of them were sure who it belonged to and, at that moment, none of them really cared—heading towards New Jersey with a full gas tank.

Treasa had been left—none too happily—back at the house, laying on the sofa and glaring at them as they went through the door and Steve, who had started alone, was now surrounded by new friends chattering as he leaned his forehead against the window and watched the world go by.

“Captain?” Bruce’s soft voice cut through his thoughts.

“Hmm?” Steve looked back at the scientist and realized that everyone’s eyes were on him. “Sorry, what was that?”

The smile on the older man’s face was gentle and patient. “I was just wondering how you were.”

“Fine,” The soldier muttered and yelped when Natasha’s palm smacked the side of his face. “Jeeze! I am, really! Just thinking!” He rubbed his cheek and glared at the redhead. “You’re a jerk.”

“Sure am,” she saluted and leaned back in her seat.

“How’s your shoulder?” Sam turned onto a road, eyes flickering over to the captain.

Steve groaned and slouched in his seat. “It hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me,” he drawled.  “Which was, oh,” he glanced at the clock. “An _hour_ ago.”

“We ask because we _care_ ,” the spy grinned and ducked as one of the soldier’s hands grabbed for her.

“Children, children,” Bruce raised his hands and both the spy and captain turned their bright eyes to him. “No fighting.”

Sam snickered. “Yeah, you know how mad it makes mommy.”

There was a few chuckles and Bruce grinned, “Bruce Banner,” he said, meeting the other man’s eyes in the mirror.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Nice to meet you,” the scientist scratched the underside of his wrist absently. “I think you’re just about the most normal person in this group of crazies.”

“Pepper’s normal,” Natasha pointed out.

Steve turned around fully in his seat to look back at her. “Pepper is dating Tony.”

The spy winced. “Okay, so that’s _one_ strike against her.”

“Pepper has worked for Tony for ten years and is _still_ dating him.”

Bruce snorted. “But she’s now CEO of his company,” he pointed out.

There was a murmur of assortment from the group.

“Rhodey’s normal.”

“Again,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the car door. “Tony.”

“I’m catching a pattern, here,” Sam said, flicking on his turn signal. “Is he really that bad?”

“Yes,” came the deadpanned chorus.

Steve drummed his fingers on the arm rest in the second of silence before he leaned forward. “Pepper and Rhodey are nice, though. Even if they do hang out with...” Everyone could see him trying to come up with a nice term for the billionaire—his nose scrunched up, his brow furrowed.

“A lunatic?” Natasha offered.

“Ridiculous man?”

Glaring at both the spy and Bruce, Steve settled with just the word _him_. It was said in that tilting manner though in which everyone knew what he meant (which was both their suggestions and _just_ bit more).

The car ride passed quickly after that, Steve, Bruce, and Natasha sharing their stories of one Tony Stark seeing who could get Sam to laugh so hard that the captain had to lean over and grab the wheel so they wouldn’t go tumbling off the road. It was the spy who won that one, describing the billionaire’s face as she stabbed a needle into the side of his neck.

They pulled up the dirt road leading up to the chained up gate of Camp Lehigh and the laughter died down. Steve got out first, Natasha close behind with a her phone in hand, already pressing some buttons and holding it up.

“This the right place?” Sam handed over the shield to Steve after tugging on the strange, metal backpack and the captain nodded, eyeing the rusty, dirt covered sign.

The spy picked the lock and pushed the gate open, wincing as it creaked and groaned. “It’s old.”

“Thanks,” Steve drawled and Bruce grinned softly while Sam snickered. The captain stepped over weeds, trailing along the dirt path, looking up at the white post and it’s missing flag. He rapped his knuckles against it before moving past, Sam at his heels while the scientist and Natasha hovered around, both eyeing the readings on the phone.

“No radio, no internet,” Bruce muttered and fumbled for a small device, pulling out the antennae and raising it. “No radiation of any kind.”

Sam kicked at a rock. “So what the hell were they doing here?”

Nettles picked at Steve’s pants as he walked onto the road that the army had made him and the other guys run every day. It was completely overgrown with just the dark, rough dirt marking the difference between where the road ended and the grass had begun.

“You okay?” Sam’s eyes were warm when Steve turned to him.

“Yeah, it’s just...” He looked back over the camp. “Odd seeing it like this.” The captain’s eyes moved over the camp and settled on a grey building. A small frown appeared on his face as the sound of Natasha and Bruce changing their settings drifted over to them. “That’s doesn’t belong there.”

For a moment, there was confusion on Sam’s face before it dawned and he looked at the barracks. “No. No it does not.”

“What?” Natasha called over to them as they walked towards the building. “Did you guys find something?”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned over at them. “A whole _building_.”

Steve broke the lock with his shield and wrenched the door open. Both he and Sam stared into the dark building and the captain stepped aside to let the other man pass. Raising him hands up, Sam shook his head. “Oh, hell no. This is how horror movies _always_ start.”

Natasha pushed past them both and walked in, Bruce following behind. Sam and Steve glanced at each other before quickly catching up to them. There was a staircase that creaked when they went down, but the lights turned on and the four of them were staring at an empty office space with an eagle painted on the wall.

“Uh,” Sam stared at it for a while. “So... the bad guys were meeting up in an old base for the good guys?”

“Maybe they like irony?” Bruce shrugged and inspected some of the desks.

“This goes a bit beyond irony,” Steve pointed out. “This is rididculous.”

Natasha snorted. “Yeah; some old white guy sitting in a room; ‘you know what’ll be funny?’” She changed her voice so it was dramatically deeper.

Snickering, Steve followed, making his own tone drop until Sam and Bruce both looked like they were about to start giggling. “‘What?’”

“‘How ‘bout we _take our secret hiding base_ and put it in the _original_ secret hiding base!’”

Sam exploded into sarcastic clapping. “Oh, bravo!” He cheered. “Perfect! Spectacular! What a marvellous idea!”

Shaking his head, Bruce headed into one of the side rooms. “Young ones,” he muttered good naturally, glancing over the empty bookcases and pictures on the wall. There was Howard Stark, looking primp and primed as usual. His hair slicked back, spine straight, staring at the camera with the same daring as his son. A man was next to him, greying, wrinkled, but still managing to look like a stone golem—unmoveable and something no one wanted to anger.

And then there was the woman. The woman with the curls, the dark eyes and light lips, her eyes challenging him, daring him to take his best shot because she would take him down. There was a firmness to her shoulders as if they were used to holding burdens but rather than weighing her down, they just made her stronger.

Bruce would have been a fool not to recognize Peggy Carter. Anyone who made it through their eighth grade education could recognize her face. The laughter died out suddenly and the scientist turned, looking back at the three who had paused at the threshold of the side room.

Standing out in front, flanked by Natasha and Sam, was Steve. His eyes were wide, staring at the woman. His hand reached forward, fingers almost brushing the glass before they pulled back and the soldier shook his head, shaking himself out of his thoughts. Turning, he headed down the line of shelves, good humour suddenly stifled by the reminder on the wall of what he had lost.

There was a moment where Bruce thought he would keep walking, but the soldier frowned, paused, and backtracked a bit to look over the shelving. Grabbing the steel, he pushed, grunting as metal screeched against metal. “Secret elevator for a secret organization residing in a secret office,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded seriously. “I think they took it a bit too far.”

They gathered into the elevator and it dropped downwards (as the old things tend to do) and Bruce grabbed onto the back of Steve’s shirt as his heart rate skyrocketed.

“You okay?” The blonde looked over him, a small frown on his face—caring as if he hadn’t just seen his past nailed up on the wall like a bloodied sacrifice.

“Just startled me,” Bruce muttered—just as the entire thing jerked to a stop and the doors opened.

Only this time, it was to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was getting to the point where it would have been over 12,000 words if I had continued on the path I had laid out. So everything else will probably be placed into the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are wonderful and nice (very nice). This story will be updated when I have time between work and flights and life.


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